The grove swallows me whole. Kudzu fastens  
itself to my back  
like a Ferrari abandoned in Appalachia. It’s self- 

serving, wish fulfillment, this story  
is the story  
that makes stories possible, necessitates  

itself. I’m not trying to say Sully Sullenberger  
isn’t special, but Jesus  
walked on water and The Divine Edgar trapped  

waterfalls of whiskey in his gullet. It’s a matter 
of perspective, the wife 
takes up a knife after years of carrying bruises  

under camisoles and turtlenecks. The cop 
finds his finger wrapped 
around another’s trigger. Blame the husband.  

The hot sand. Blame time. There’s almost  
something spiritual  
about the sound of this place, rain  

in torrents at the city’s gates—three men— 
woodcutter,  
commoner, priest, sort it all out, but still,  

it’s hard to have hope. A bell welcomes me 
to the deli, I grab  
a bag of Fritos and ask, who will drive the stake 

through my heart today?

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