after American Honey




In your name is a miracle’s body that outsurvives

every death. You, the mother of many things—

including yourself. When you leave for the Motel 6,

what becomes of the little ones—their Ma’s offhandness

and the coward man who slow-dances you into shame? Family,

to you, is but anyone with four walls for you to dream in.

Star, Star, Star—the point of no story should be a group of kids

who go door-to-door for a living, but here you are—alive with fire

on top of the Econoline with the Raveonettes blasting, helium-hearted

as you and your boy-formed love put all lovers

out of business, two young speckles diamonding

the American flag. In no time you learn the difference

between a girl and a crumpled thousand-dollar sum

is none; how the home you carry accepts its trespassing

in an electric green dress. That dancing is by no means

an escape from misery for long, so too are kindnesses

daring you to be a creature unafraid. Sing, Star—out loud, a song

of your soul’s choosing. Set free your laugh long enough

to bend the roads that roll ahead, curling the night’s charred tongue

into welcome. This is a country wearing nothing in the dark.

This bonfire speaks the same orange of your scratch-nails,

baby. Remember how the minute feels afterwards, as you put on

the whole diamond-blue lake. Your shadow disappears awhile

and we almost mistake it for freedom.