literature poetry sociology Southern Gothic

blades of grass

i long for the way

your stubble beard felt on my little girl skin

my fingers tracing stars on your sandpaper

how safe it was

to curl up on your chest

tucked beneath your chin

as we swayed gently

in your old leather rocker


dozing and certain god was in heaven


there are days now


when i’ve come to believe

jesus called in sick for the second coming

and my fingers running through

blades of grass on your grave

would do

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