She used to work at an ice-cream shop. Let each flavor that came through the store touch her tongue. Savored it and told her mom matter-of-factly that eating ice cream was part of her job. Then, the hot air of a bathroom. Arms against the wall. Arms against the floor. A drop of his sweat down her throat.

Unremember everything – / the smell of rotting plums, his hands around throat, / the way honey rolled from his tongue like rain. /

the Blue Ridge Mountain chain wraps around my father’s words / freight minimum wage assembly line / the big city pull, they say/ 

I can tell by your hands that you haven’t prayed enough /  mine  crumbled obelisks  / under a searing sun   overgrowth through the dry cracks  /  are your fingers glued at  /  the tips?