Rochelle Hurt
I was born a fleck of milltrash
bedded in a black hill, a cry
stoppered with crabgrass.
I was born a stick in the stuck-mud drift
of land called Virginia.
I was born among a clutter of cats
and tongues sloughing a crust of coalspit
from their coal-bit teeth.
I was born an apology.
I was born with a gift for gall and grift,
late to a woman with hands
as slick as her knickers.
I was born a breadcrumb in a trail
of fathers leading out of our clapboard house.
I was born a tawdry dress
my sister wore for prayers and hollers
until it was torn from her hips
and a kernel of a baby shook loose,
my sister’s skin wrapped around his like a noose.
You’ll never tell home from hurt
my daddy said. His mouth
was a curse placed on my mother’s forehead.