the way those dirt roads cut across the flats
and led to shakes where hounds and muddy
skulked roundabouts. Describing it sounds trite
as hell, the good old South I love to hate.
The truth? What's that? How should I know?
I stayed inside too much. I learned to boast
of stupid things. I kept my ears shut tight,
as we kept doors locked, windows locked,
the curtains drawn. Now I know why.
The dark could hide things from us. Dark could
what we could not. Sometimes those dirt roads
me, where they ended up: I watched a dog die
in the ditch. The man who shot him winked at
~Kathryn Stripling Byer