theodolite

on the death of a place

There is a freckle on my knuckle -

I’m still working on loving my body but
I think I can start there, with a freckle
on my knuckle, just under the all seeing
eye. If I had known,

If I had known
that drive from South Georgia would be
my last, for so many years, that the rain and
fog and damp thickness of the air and the
Spanish moss hanging heavy in the trees
and the creeks and the ditches running high
and the lonely, lonely farmhouses were
saying goodbye, I
may not have fallen asleep in the backseat
with my mom at the wheel
and no dust kicking up beneath the tires.

The dark spaces between the trees
have not held me for
so long
that I’ve lost a link in my chain.
My father leaves the driveway in the dark
early hours
and his headlights dim like a cue I’ve written.

Sod. Skin grafts. Placing things
where they don't belong. Careful --
keep the nerve endings intact --
yes. It wouldn't do to numb the experience.

After every life is done,
someone takes a tape measure
to the grave dirt.

Image Copyright Philip Juras