At the beach, her husband stands
on the sandbar,
the gulf breeze drowning out his words—
a postcard-perfect tableau of
1000 words of relaxation—
of just being.
She was iced tea,
he was hot with lemon and cream.
She was a Southern belle,
he was an Englishman from Cornell.
Piety Jones, poetess by choice,
cotton-picker by chance,
who wore the sun in her hair,
& the sky in her eyes,
liked to say she picked the clouds
from the heavens that
Athena wove into the
pillows of dreams.
When Yankee ingenuity
met Southern hospitality,
they turned their weaknesses into strengths,
birthing a glad nation.
It’s hot as hell boiling over.
The gardenias come out like a siren,
tempting with their sweet perfume,
the azaleas show up without care,
& the magnolias pop out like
fat, white mushrooms in the twilight-dark.