In Alabama, through pine thicket,
the corner of Tennessee, and the deep end of several driveways,
I assume my role as big sister, daughter,
where pieces of identity have other shapes.
It fits now like handled hand-me downs,
ill and faded, the most comfortable piece I have.
Even in a different house, I wake
to same sounds and damp smells,
feeling tucked into high hollow rock.
Here, the fog is no cat, no beast but its own,
how it turns everything to ghost.
Eagle Rock is a secret
jutted over untouched and rolling lines of mountain.
Once I took my husband there.
The mountain roared.
A thousand leaves unlatched their chimes.
Have a good Thanksgiving. See you back here soon.