And somewhere smoke unrolls like a pine needle, unspooling
from a red oak root clutching unhatched larvae,
from the powder of the failed chimney chinking,
from the fallen petals of cinquefoil and cross-vine,
a smoke that repeats the story:
Once there was a heron that spread her wings
to the edge of Kentucky where she dragged her feathertips
along fence planks and doorway eaves, on every toe
and dirt-wrinkled sole of each foot on each white ash floor.
When the earth opened, she crawled into the hole of its
and flew away with seventeen men on each wing
and left a rock that sank on their tongues,
their hands in the limestone soil heavy as wellwater,
their voices grain between two millstones.
Their home a crow’s nest of barbed wire.
“Log Cabin.” Yemassee Journal. 18.1.2 (2011): 98. Print.