Monongalia mountains rub their shoulders blue

With horizon, these hills dreaming themselves sky.

Hardwood forest by the highway, woodblanket

For hills scalped on the other side. I descend

From ridge to hollow, feel his coal in my pocket

Shake off the matte, oil itself glossy, hot. My leg

Glows red as the spray of cardinal flowers

Goat-high on a furred stalk, exhaling scarlet:

I breathe them in, loose a flight of bees

From each pore of my face, winging back

To drink each bright bell. As the trail rises again,

My ears vibrate with the drone of mosquitoes,

Machinery—a hum that still tells my body

It is summer, and your father may never come home.