1

the lesson

If you taught me to hold

snow like it is native to
the creases of my fingers,
my cracking skin of my nails,
of my lips, I would know,
again, would know you would
listen solemn as though your back
pressed to a pew as I teach you
to pull the South from the
soul of the honeysuckle, guide
you to hold that nectar in your
mouth before you swallow. Hold
it just long enough to feel your
feet sink into red clay, ‘til you
know how Spanish moss will beg
to be seen, hold it ‘til the sickly
sweet of Bama must drip down
your throat – you’d hold every
word like a promise for a
baptism into one another. If
I can just learn how it is
to fight frostbite like its name
is known to my teeth as they part
to give it space, I will hold you
to taste the Sweet Home. And
I wait, now, for a second snow,
gustier and mightier, to melt away,
to wash us home, to remind me
that the dance is a love song before
it is a tragedy.