Poetry, Connor McMahon
I.
Cornus Florida spring yawns into white blossoms, sulfuric morning breath, pliant flesh liable to snap under F-5 tornadic conditions. In the aftermath, the petals are perfectly camouflaged amongst insulation tufts. My first day back at school, they are selling screen-printed t-shirts that read I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me, overlaid onto an animated twister. All proceeds donated to families affected. The last time we cleaned that house, Dad started up the lawn mower after it was thrown about 100 yards down the road and created plumes of eviscerated sheetrock in his wake. Nothin' runs like a deer.
II.
My teeth sink into hot smoked breast. Watchful, amused adults wait for my first swallow. Columbidae, not Gallus Gallus, they deliver as punchline. I remember my manners even as my stomach sours, wait until it is safe to excuse myself without suspicion, lock the bathroom door before doubling over into teary retches. Shot at dawn's maw off the power line, flushed by dinner. Years later, in dense Appalachia, I remember the wretched fowl as I watch a withered patriarch slice Sistrurus from fang to bulb, skin and scales peeled away, rope of flesh pulled up high over his head. Thirteen expectant mouths congregate around the charcoal grill, mosquito-poxed, inhaling the incense of its flesh. He divides the bounty, peels off coveted, tender jowl and presents it as offering. We fill our stomachs gladly, suck the gristle dry.
III.
Twin Quercus Virginiana's death foretold on radio by way of Spike 80DF injection. A block from their monuments, lagerstroemia lines the concourse, and hot pink confetti tufts rain on the zealot-stripping bark to hang up uncanny airbrushed images of aborted fetuses, shouting admonitions to the young women on their way to class. Counterprotesters and sympathetic citizens hurl obscenities between each other, captured and broadcasted live from the zealot's tripod. He casts out our demons in the name of Jesus.
IV.
The outline of a Plestiodon Fasciatus' tail creates a lopsided mustache on the stained glass image of Jesus Christ. I am making myself small in the pew, hands clasped in perverse japa God please save me I don't want go to hell God please save me I don't want to go to hell God please save m- stunned into laughter at his unlikely caricature. We snicker at our inside joke, try not to interrupt the preacher as he hollers that if we TURN from our wicked ways (amen) if we PROCLAIM that he is the lord of the lord and the king of kings (hallelujah) and if we BELIEVE that he sent his only begotten son to die for our sins (amen) and we ACCEPT him into our heart we WILL be saved (lord thank you hallelujah)
V.
Rubus Fruticosus brambles shrug along barbed wire fences. We stain our fingers raw with harvest, throw one berry in the milk jug for every three we eat off the vine. We were warned Serpentes make homes in the thorny underbrush, leave the ripest berry as atonement. At night, through hypnotic Cicadidae vibrations, we breathe in time. Corrosive drones, resin-stick in ear canals. In the still months, Dad's noise machine mimics their dense summer riot. Their husks litter the backyard, afterimages and echoes sole evidence they were there at all. I place my ear to earth, strain to hear them burrowed in the rich soil. Lamium amplexicaule wraps her violet petal around my ear, tells me an old story.
Connor McMahon is a trans, Appalachian poet exploring regional identity, spirituality, and environment through his writing. He is the former Editor-In-Chief of Auburn University's undergraduate literary and arts magazine. Connor currently lives and writes in the American South, where he works as a disability rights advocate at a legal nonprofit.
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