Pigeon Forge
The mountains remember strewn sea bed
shouldered skyward, tilted peaks like grand
pianos
upended in empty concert halls
corners scoured, rounded tones muffled
under ancient blanketing mist
drawing them through the gaps, up and over
keeping to the rivers, mountains
trailing apace over their left shoulders.
My people, then: generations rising
before the sun cleared the mountains
pissing into empty JFG coffee cans
in the wee small hours
feeding stray dogs grey breakfast scraps
babies, hands, sons lost to the relentless grinding
maw
toeing the narrow ledge of fickle red clay
Winston-Salem hungry for the next harvest
smoking in damp knots in the godless seam
between Sunday school and Sunday service
a blister of motels, outlet malls and
chains
moving good country cookin’ rising
overnight in a seeping pox
scabbing over under the watchful eye
of the mountains dissolving wordless
into rivers, their secrets safe.
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