Fog off the water is spirits, some say.
But I keep mine in a sunfish
near the cove I've named Paradise.
Dead in the lake isn't easy.
My skin slides off, quick like a silk-dress
and catfish, big as chevys,
They remember the color of my fingernails as the mud sings
The crow has found me, right where
the tide said to stay.
My insides are yellowed by the Tennessee sun
and from somewhere,
I forgive your dog for eating them.
My grandmother weeps into the water.