By Anne

My southern accent used to be:

wild honey boiling on a stove
an old woman standing in a barrel of raspberries
stomping jam to juice
babies rolling around in the mud
their parents speaking in the distance with names
like Rilke and Eliot on their lips
a crown of lilacs.

The birds of my voice have migrated to a colder place in winter
froze in the form of candle wax
in summer the wax seeped through with flame, ice melted
my voice longed for honey
my tongue ached like dry clay in a sculptor's hands
digging holes in the Midwest
searching for an entrance-way to a bear's cave
flooding with honey.