I grew up in the last half of a century of civil wars
waged in diners, schools, and voting booths.
Three bodies pulled from an earthen dam in Neshoba County.
I was 15.
Picking blackberries along the red dirt ditch,
Highway 17 was gravel then.

Watching the fireflies, I lay on my grandmother’s quilt, the damp ground
seeping into my sunburned skin.
Listening to the muffled grownup voices,
Trying to sleep, but far too awake.

I grow old in a new century of civil wars.

2.20.24