Alabama Ghost Pool
by J. T. Glover
No history in this mud to summon ghosts, no trees
weighted with overripe black fruit, just a muddy gash
where kudzu-humbled trees once knelt,
resting place for fishermen, and for children
cannonballing new fathoms. Too weak yet to wake
from grief alone, they rise at the thin times, when night
bows down to the sun. Shadows built of earthen bones
flicker, converge on the path between topsoil and reflection,
their dark band at water's edge a warning for gentle beasts.
Raven will no longer even shit here, in this dirt-hollow
where old things rustle that ought to have slept,
this place where barriers trickle, blur.
J. T. Glover lives and writes in Richmond, Virginia. A Seattle native, he is in the process of understanding the South. He writes just before dawn, when his powers are strongest and he can more easily tell truths from lies. While he does generally avoid strong sunlight and prefers cool climates, the rumors about the tail are completely untrue. You can read about his writerly and readerly doings on his LJ.
When asked to name his favourite fruit, he replied, "On a day in July of 2000 I had a wedge of watermelon that was cut from the Platonic ur-fruit. I'd been working in searing temperatures for weeks, walking endlessly back and forth across the fields of southern Greece. All year long I had felt like I was missing a part of myself. The taste of that cold, sweet watermelon woke me up again. That was my favorite fruit."
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