Slow River thru Arkansas by Frank McClure. Courtesy of the Smithsonian American Art Museum, Bequest of Frank McClure.
Faulkner County reeks of burning leaves;
other days, smelt from the refinery.
A whiff of manure when the breeze
turns just right. All seasons, this air
is heavy with rainwater: ozone
like burnt sugar & too much sex.
I would kiss the diamondback
if I knew it would get me to heaven—
After mice kicked through the oatmeal
and those chthonic roaches slipped out
from the drain—their undercarriages
like baskets knotted with mistakes,
forewings a dark & rotting wood—
I ask out loud: what in creation
has inverted? This hell on earth, nowhere
safe now but between the sheets.
I would kiss the diamondback
if I knew it would get me to heaven—
Cats in a yowling match below the bedroom window
while, next door, Marilyn kicks off her stilettos,
chain-smokes towards kingdom come.
Behind these flowered curtains, four feet
lift from the dusty floor. We hiss until our tongues
touch, rub away all earthly trouble.
I would kiss the diamondback
If I knew it would get me to heaven—