Jessamine County, Ballard Washout Road
by Brent Fisk
Old briars darken the wire fence.
The White Parks are in the cornfield muck,
bright hides setting off the sumac’s glow.
November is a late riser, all its light
through bed sheets, waxed paper,
wood smoke.
We head in the truck toward Zion,
past the mop head opossums dead in the road,
past the honeyed hickory, and bone-white sycamore.
Autumn cloaks the roadside in weed rags,
wind-shattered seed heads, bare saplings
in fence rows. We take the road
we know in our bones, county road off ramp
like sinew to muscle. Visit the plain
and sagging houses, the bent aerials pulling
from the clapboards, roof shingles
stained with leaves.
The metal knob on the screen door
so cold it burns the hand. The television
on with the sound down. We listen
to a dialogue of clocks.
