If I were a southern bell, I’d think of war
but I am anti-bell, the long ummm
that wonders under the clang of history.

Perhaps, If I did not already know
how sweet every letter is but’T’ and
steeped, fresh and bitter lemony

Alas, I carry no ring, I am beloved
of war, I sort ideas into piles of maybe
and wander history like an awkward silence

If I were a southern bell, I’d buy dresses.
but I am not that cat or ill, or un
der-appreciated, dancing with daddy’s guidance.