Hill Clan

I’m lyin’ out here in the mythic cold
uncovered and disavowed. An’ I ain’t
ever leavin’ alive unless I’m told
by the Spirit, or the Lord or a Saint.

I had me a girl that I loved some more
an’ I swear by God, the devil I did,
a good one now, not a cunt or a whore,
an’ we whelped us a lad, a boy, a kid.

An’ we raised him up to hunt in the wood
with a knife or a spear to slay game with,
an’ a sling to stun a bird when he could—
but he died fetchin’ sweets from a hollow pith.

M’girl what I loved, mourned an’ slit her wrist,
bled the ground, greedy ground, like syrup missed…





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Charles (Charlie) Southerland lives on his farm in North-Central Arkansas where he bales hay, mills lumber, hunts and fishes. When he has time, he writes poetry on just about every subject. He is published in Trinacria, The Rotary Dial, First Things, The Road Not Taken and other journals. He has been nominated for a 2016 Pushcart Prize and is a finalist in the 2015 Howard Nemerov Sonnet Contest. He likes to write sonnets, villanelles and sapphics.