This is the kind of place I grew up:

as a child I thought it was a law

that names of towns contain “rock” 

or “mountain.” I knew four towns,

and Little Rock was culture. 

Thank god for Mississippi, people 

liked to joke, for being the only state 

with higher poverty rates and lower 

reading levels than us. And as far 

as I know, we don’t have a word 

for the kind of gate that’s just

a hanging fencepost you drag

through the dirt. Nor for the fascia 

of deer paths, draws, and logging 

roads that make a topographical map 

of older minds. Have you ever 

known a J.D.? I bet he could start a fire

from nothing, repair any machine. 

I bet you would cry if he told you

what all preys on turkey eggs.