share cropping

by Corey Kirby

I remember who I am; southern
bales of hay, blond strands of
cornfields growing long past
shoulders of sun. a long run
on a salty road, a handful of
overgrown raspberries in the
pocket of high-water jeans.
a mean storm that beats the
side of the house so loud my
mouth bleeds, leaves debris in
the yards of my memories. but
keep that part out, let me write
about bruised fruit, unripe.