I am a graveyard
a farm converting crops
to cement
a barn who lost the gift of tobacco
still stained with its scent
my aroma: sour mash
coal burning power plants
wildflower blooms and natural gas
redbuds, magnolias
I am cigarette smoke and cancer
strip malls like sunspots on a burned back
another and another
and another
church
acres and acres churned up
in the worship of money
Kentucky
is
my body
I am sweet water
sinking through skin to limestone
bone, a circulatory system
pushing blood through veins
beyond dams and stints
clots of plaque, cans and plastic
I am black lungs
bellowing the song my granny
sung over a hot stove while mashing
potatoes pulled from garden ground
before any future conversion
to cul-de-sac
I am a crooked spine
of knobs and mountaintops
centered only by serpentine
sway of back roads, my soul
where front porch stories
still echo
Kentucky
is
my body
and I am a gun rack
locked in a spare bedroom
where quilts lay spread
across peaceful beds