Coffee Springs

There is pleasure in me—

my grandmother's front yard—

I don’t want to lose the

name—Coffee Springs—I’ll scream

for my uncle’s dog—Henrietta—

crawl inside the pile of pine straw—

be patient for the heavy breath

determined to push through all

this Alabama earth. Maybe that's

joy—maybe that’s time spent

breathing—spent sitting on the

pew in a church that will one day

catch fire—maybe I’m trying to make

memories into stained glass so

they’ll be holy. I want my Alabama

to be holy.