VirginiaRobert E. Lee lives just miles from my door,Virginia by melodysnow
bending at the right. On the corner, is a white church
housing brown skin in the Virginia spring. My best
friend’s father has a Confederate flag hanging in his
living room. A white military man married to a Filipino
woman because her skin is a few shades lighter, more
tan than true brown, light enough to speak
love to, on occasion.
The Civil War grounds up by Todd’s Tavern are fenced
off, but momma swears she hit a ghost on the bridge
one night, eyes blooming in refracted headlights—
allowing the past to slip into consciousness
—fingers curling like the flowering dogwoods, singed
at the tips, like fire ants threading their clay houses,
hidden under soft mounds in the earth.
And the bees are building up in my throat, as I watch
the fruit in my neighbor’s yard begin to rot.
I can’t touch the roots. But the bees are trembling like
some cracked bell, a revolution, a crying.