My Kinda Woman (For Appalachia)

Tall drink of water, she got a secret sort of smile. She got a good voice and bowed, long legs. A white father. A black mother. Claims Indian roots somewhere back there, she’s not sure where; she keep ’em in a closet full of hooded specters right next to the boxes of special occasion lingerie. She smoke loose leaf, but only when she drinks. She drinks only if it’s strong and only if it’s sweet. She can curse and loves hard. She used to wear Blue but now it’s Red most of the time. She got dreadlocks, a gingham shift, and a Confederate flag for a belt buckle. She call her boots ‘shitkickers.’ A Bible rides around in her backseat. If you’re lucky and she’s lonesome waiting around for that no good man, she might lift her shirt and show you the scar he left webbing up her ribs. She drawls when she’s relaxed and she always relaxed. She can cook up a storm when she’s happy. She can smell rain. Bony in places and hippy in others, she blushes in Spring and cackles in the Fall. She a good old gal, fine lines and all.