Gumballs & Strawberry Wine

I received the news of mah uncle's
death at tha academy so took mah
leave to pay respects, as is tha way
of mountain folk.        
           
I can remembah the coppah pipe            
of tha illegal still      
mah daddy and uncle operated.         
I remember walking the trail      
the wood beneath my feet    
unsteady, filled with ants, beavers      
and smiling birds asleep    
with their hearts two inches    
beside them, who were ashamed    
the moment they saw the Sun    
and felt their blood moving about.            
           
I tell myself death      
will be like a papercut    
like breaking the spine of a book    
God says He's going to read    
but never gets around to it.    
     
Like being locked in a cabin    
with Poems and a warm oven    
but no nightingale    
to sing even when I'm awake    
because mah daddy made sure    
every thang was locked tight    
when he left for the night shift.    
     
But I still he'yah that nightingale    
caught in mah he'yah like a leaf,    
a branch, or a spider web you walk    
into when you've snuck out    
the forest is dark as it's going to get    
there's no chance anyone will see you.      
     
Not even an owl or a mouse,    
or a possum crossin' ya path at tha    
creek, but it's those who can see me    
the most that I'm runnin' from.    
     
Or is it a stranger I think of the most    
that I'm running to, hiden' away    
in that deep wood's shack      
whe'ya nobody'd find him    
watchin' him through    
the window, the kitchen table      
an altar of Poetry      
copulating with his own verses    
the walls layered in sketches    
beautiful places and women      
mah virginity ( still intact )      
burning a hole in mah damp    
cotton undah'wea'yah.    
     
I thought he caught me once      
when mah foot snapped a twig    
I froze like a cootah in flashlights    
but he just smiled and kept writin'l    
     
He was oldah tha'yan me      
Handsomely distinquished, and gone    
too soon to some exotic place    
in mah mind, so I ran into churches  
sobbing, imagining his poems      
as handkerchiefs, mah clothes    
tryin' so hard to stay on    
when I'm tryin' so hard      
to make it home, clean up the    
kitchen 'fore daddy arrives.    
     
But I'm no good in tha kitchen      
and a woman who is no good      
in tha kitchen is good at writin' poetry    
is good at livin' alone so the sink      
is never full of dirty dishes to wash      
when she'd rathah be writin'.    
     
It's been years since I trekked      
through these woods    
but I remember vividly undah'ground
tunnels of hidden 'shine    
and the root cellar            
camouflaged in brambles    
stocked with rich Strawberry wine      
and a gumball machine    
I used for a bank    
saving to leave town one day.      
     
The'yah was also a strange envelope      
in a handwriting I hadn't seen      
since the shack emptied          
over a decade ago      
It was tacked to a simple sketch    
of a young girl in a cotton gown    
lookin' through a window at midnight    
the lantern illuminating her  
adolescent shape through white fabric      
     
It was simply addressed,  "Clarice" .