A SENSE OF MISPLACE
A SENSE OF MISPLACE
Rural Kentucky plus gay equals
ache of never feeling planted
when all around you
are rows and rows
of tobacco rooted
so deep it can’t be pulled.
I couldn’t tap
this soil for pabulum
or grip the clods
that others held tight.
I never conjured
the magic of plunging
gnarled fingers
into this hard clay.
I was the anti-farmer,
the odd non-member,
the alfalfa sprout that flaunted
its clean, blanched root
obscenely in the air.
This poem first appeared in BloodLotus.