40 East to Knoxville
J. C. Jordan
a grieving fortune teller who reads death in every palm my mother says, to make me ache, you’ll never come home again
I know that I’ve been careless in my truancy I’ve been wayward, hoping to drift, Odysseus’ least successful protégé, but when I left I didn’t mean to leave forever
take back your stinging accusations— I have not been unfaithful to my mountains or my southern dirt; no other land has laid its grasping hands on me
I still dream of hazy summer like a fever, your lilting tongues, and some goddamn peace and quiet; even …