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.