​The scent of pig is faint tonight
as the lime trees hang their heads against gradations of blue,
 
looking at the lone suitcase in the middle of the farmyard
with a sense of solidarity. Also forgotten.
 
Its owner never once looked up at them and exclaimed
I was still soft-fingered when I planted you.
 
In the plane, her gaze rests on a flock of cloud-birds,
pinkish purple with elongated necks, rests
 
on the plane’s wing-tip colored pink by the sun.
Her head is heavy with this childhood cargo,
 
like the hawk that usually flies between or above their branches,
found skimming the ground with its catch of mouse or mole,   
 
or the barge that passes every day at four, its metal nose
just out of the water, while empty at eight, its sleek sides
 
flash signals to those on shore. Later, on the highway
a row of trucks lit like orange squares in the setting sun--
 
a colony of ants each with a piece of chrysanthemum
on their backs—begins to reassemble memories;
 
the petals become lining, the shape of the flower is lost,
so that years later, looking at an old photograph,
 
she will not remember the names of cousins and uncles
but the exact bend in the river behind them, the pattern of trees.

​Source: Poetry Foundation

​I still can’t get it right
BY KATHRYN STRIPLING BYER
 
I don’t know. I still can’t get it right,
the way those dirt roads cut across the flats
and led to shacks where hounds and muddy shoats
skulked roundabouts. Describing it sounds trite
as hell, the good old South I love to hate.
The truth? What’s that? How should I know?
I stayed inside too much. I learned to boast
of stupid things. I kept my ears shut tight,
as we kept doors locked, windows locked,
the curtains drawn. Now I know why.
The dark could hide things from us. Dark could see
what we could not. Sometimes those dirt roads shocked
me, where they ended up: I watched a dog die
in the ditch. The man who shot him winked at me.

It appears the poem is mis-titled here. I still like a poem read to me.

Brenda McCaffrey reads her ABC poem "Visceral Wastelands."

A Poem for S.
BY JESSICA GREENBAUM
Because you used to leaf through the dictionary, 
Casually, as someone might in a barber shop, and 
Devotedly, as someone might in a sanctuary, 
Each letter would still have your attention if not 
For the responsibilities life has tightly fit, like 
Gears around the cog of you, like so many petals 
Hinged on a daisy. That’s why I’ll just use your 
Initial. Do you know that in one treasured story, a 
Jewish ancestor, horseback in the woods at Yom 
Kippur, and stranded without a prayer book, 
Looked into the darkness and realized he had 
Merely to name the alphabet to ask forgiveness— 
No congregation of figures needed, he could speak 
One letter at a time because all of creation 
Proceeded from those. He fed his horse, and then 
Quietly, because it was from his heart, he 
Recited them slowly, from aleph to tav. Within those 
Sounds, all others were born, all manner of 
Trials, actions, emotions, everything needed to 
Understand who he was, had been, how flaws 
Venerate the human being, how aspirations return 
Without spite. Now for you, may your wife’s  
-ray return with good news, may we raise our
Zarfs to both your names in the Great Book of Life.

​Source: Poetry Foundation