The Legend of the Crick Fox We cursed a man with Appetite, When he drank Crick Mountain dry; Stripped him of his earthly home, But did not grant him leave to die. We snatched the fire from his heart, Bade him use it warm his meat and hands Told the crick fox - run quickly now - You’ll find no peace in these new lands. But he found a broker somewhere in the corners of these woods, He traded a new deal in blood and gold And returned twice as tall he stood. The tide changed against us somehow Though we had always paid our due, Now we skulk the earth apart and searching For our way back to the Great Wide Open To Illuminate the Path Home for You.

He told me the story of Curiosity, The gluttonous witch of the woods. One night, the witch was praying to the gods to grant her the knowledge of the truth of all things, When she heard a knock at the door. When she opened it, she found herself face to face with a Wolf; The lion of the forest dark. She asked the Wolf: “Did the gods send you to me?” And the Wolf replied: “Look into my eyes and see the truth, though it may be short lived.” She stared into the golden yellow, and in that moment came to understand the fundamental truths of the universe: We are all animals running from death; Tonight, she would be dinner - and The gods have a wicked sense of humor.

Author’s Note: If the tagline sounded familiar, you probably recognized it from Fireflies, an important lullaby from The Way.

I wrote it thinking about a specific conflict but it could be about any generation of soldiers, in any war, returning different than they when they left. Unrecognizable to themselves, and the people who love them the most. Every war leaves behind a version of that story — and, in one way or another, we all grow up in its echo.

This poem is for all the fathers who came back just men, after all.

Author’s Note: If you’d prefer to read along, find the original post here.

You may live here.

You may have been friends with Summer.

You may even miss it, from time to time. How it used to be. Before.

But - do you know?

Who killed the town? Was it The Stranger who Came in the night All those summers ago, And killed Our girl? Left her in the crick bed picked dry as her daddy’s pockets? It seems like It all started going wrong After that. Wasn’t that when everyone started to forget To whisper behind their folded hands? Playin’ jump rope gossip-grapevine With her ligature marks? You know, last summer she got caught stealing Eyeliner from the Osco’s A deck of cards cracks On a screen porch patio on 1st avenue While ladies lunch. Well I heard she’d been arrested before - Out at a cornfield party, drinking, of course- And where were those parents….you just never know about people anymore. Isn’t that about the time they all started taking deadly aim with crossed wires? Well, of course you heard what they’ve said ? About the autopsy results? They say, they think… A glass of sweet tea sweats At the accusations in the church basement. Was it Walmart that killed the town? That helped us save money and live better - Ran mom and pops shops off The town square where we used to Scoop the loop every Friday night Watch all the farm girls with those strong, long legs That know just how to hold a stallion- But can’t quite keep up with the minimum wage. Or was it the company store? Paid our ancestors with scrips so low It chained us to the lack in the land - Told us our worth was as hollow as the holler When they hollered for that black gold and the only sound that came back to them Was regret and retribution. Was it the prison? They sent all our uncles and brothers up state- In and out of rehab with 120.00 and three condoms in their pockets; They got hooked on painkillers after high school When they hurt their shoulder in a football game in college Or their back in that factory job Or some other thing in that war Like his mind, maybe - But anyway, he just can’t afford to keep Dad’s dreams on his back anymore. So he bottles his rage like whiskey, writes his own Supplemental script; Puts on his nicest belt buckle, Takes his pickup with a bed full of His future’s empty promises and his momma’s charm And goes cattle calling city girls who don’t know any better - They’ve never seen what becomes of those front porch gospel ghosts After the screen door closes and the smell of sulfur Soaks into a lace tablecloth. They don’t know what it took to be her. She won May Day Queen, that year she died. Got pulled down Main Street at 5mph On a float she made herself, Behind her grandad’s Lincoln continental Sun-in hair done up like Farrah Fawcett, Smile warm as summer; Hands folded in her lap, Ankles crossed, back straight and perfect wave. Her mother’s lipstick in the glovebox And grandma’s vintage perfume. She was the most beautiful thing this town her parents Ever did. And don’t you think she deserves a little justice For that? Was it the FBI? Who let a serial killer move from town to town picking it clean of its town squares and summer dreams, Coming and going like an F5 And leaving an empty shell, Right next to the prison For us to stare at in the distance- But then again - They work for that “ol man” Uncle Sam Who sold us to them? Like he was runnin’ girls or somethin’. You believe that? You believe they’d Turn us out on us Like that? We live in a small town - Nobody is ever really a Stranger here With an unsolved murder hanging over it’s head - Won’t someone help us Figure out who killed Our Girl? She was so important to us. We’re almost sure her name was Summer.

Storm season has made its way to American Elegy ! Make sure to spread the news

Storm Season has made its way to American Elegy. Make sure you spread the news.

As though they caught the scent of death, The vultures of relationships past descend; one by one to offer heartfelt Congratulations on my happy coupling. You look positively Radiant Glowing Abundant - as if you’re about to burst- Can’t we have just one more Bite of you?

This piece started at my grandmother's breakfast table, and ended in a whiskey glass. It's about wanting more than what's easy, waiting for what burns true, and knowing that some love stories are better aged with time.

“You held out for champagne, and didn’t even get beer.” My grandmother says to me one morning over breakfast. But I don’t think I’d like the bitter aftertaste of poison, slipped in one, versus the other. I’d rather wait for whiskey To mature in the barrel - Expanding and contracting with time, The Angel’s share a smoke signal Guiding me towards his scorching burn. If I must drown in my desire, I’d rather it taste like aged fire.

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