Tres Seymour

Nicotiana Requiem




I
Your shirt is made of burley, he told me between puffs
and your britches and your shoes and everything
on this table
Sweet is the word I can’t shake the taste of
Sweet earth turned for setting
Sweet scent of the hanging
Green rags hung high turn gold
then to rust
and thus gold
soft, dry and brittle

II
Aged, sweet-odored
she would meet us at her door in the dead of night
after our long journey and set us
into beds she had prepared
she called it her “smothering”
throttling her in the dark
in the other room of her sweet-smelling house

III
I like to watch him stride among the sweet white flowers
tall and expert, swift
he cuts them off
I visit two days later while he shakes
the green out of his blood
No fear of blue mold this year

IV
They played him tapes of bagpipe music
his own bellows soft, dry and brittle
cologne-sweet and full of taint

in two weeks they turned the bagpipes off
he couldn’t hear them anymore and they drove everyone else crazy

V
Your schooling came from burley, he told me between coughs
and your books and everything you know

IV
They always called the woman to come
She could strip better than any man there
deft, sticky fingers sensed dampness, dryness, heft
eyes judged shade and hue
Such a one could have sorted the leaves from an autumn oak
before they hit ground
I suppose she can shell peas just as well
Lots of people eat peas
No fear of black shank this year


Tres Seymour lives and writes in Hart County, Kentucky, within a stone’s throw of old Fort Craig on the field of the Civil War battle of Munfordville. Tres is the author of numerous books for children and young adults, including Hunting the White Cow, The Smash-Up Crash-Up Derby, Life In The Desert, and The Revelation of Saint Bruce. He is a graduate of Southern Methodist University in Dallas, with degrees in creative writing and journalism, and the University of Kentucky, with a degree in library and information science. Tres served for thirty years as a National Park Service ranger at Mammoth Cave National Park, discovered that he is extremely poor at retiring, and so is picking up his pen again.

Next Poet: CLS Sandoval: Lilies Under My Feet


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