The Alabama Wiregrassers
by Charles Ghigna
Dry rooted in penny coated clay,
the wiregrassers come
suntan tamed in drawl
through the mire faster.
Machetes high aimed for home,
they carry the clues of day
across their open, flying clothes.
Blade for blade, steel for grass,
they flog the wire
with a hungry denim run.
Black shinhair stares
boar bristled red out
from rips of hinged tight jeans.
Tobacco spittin’ voices
seep coarse through gapped teeth
like hot wax from upside-down brown candles.
An evening shadow sinks itself
in the open field,
closing it for night.
The copper cold dust
from spun home trucks
relaxes into dew
and paints itself across the wiregrass
that sleeps in rust
beneath a hush of moon.
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