June 10th
Donovan Dixon
Sam is dying
My old man is piss drunk
The passion of Joan of Arc stares down at me from the television
cathode-ray tubes proselytizing to me like a holy vision from Maté himself
The two of them lie on the cold laminate gnashing their teeth along to Joan's trial their grief passing into the witching hour and poor Sam gives out one last croak
We bury him in the morning the sun climbs overhead as an ill omen while I paint my hands red with Alabama clay
The cicadas wail along to a quiet eulogy
I watch the pine trees sway and swell as the old fool retreats into his office
and I think to myself
That man loved more of that dog than he’ll ever love of me