Southern Narcissus
by Mel Kenne
My whole life sings
inside my chest now
like the gruff caws
of a lone crow,
as everything
that sounds and resounds
through my solitary periphery
comes together
in these few lines,
finally becoming an echo
of all that is, and yet
is no longer here,
like the lingering scent
and still-fresh signs
of Faulkner’s ancient,
inimitable bear.
