The Papers of Bull Connor
       

Snow falls in the form of a last name
in your letters. It is always snowing
in Alabama in black and white
from your typewriter that sits
on the desk of 1962 with ring marks
and ash. I'll take the words you left
for us and make new colors to wear
on my lips, in Oxblood, in Trampled
Plum, I will try to kiss the history
out of your words, kiss a cut rose
out of the prosecutor, a summer peach
from the winter impeachment.
I will use only your words, now.
I'll try not to be afraid to kiss
the cottonmouth on the mouth
and the filthy mule, the hot iron.
When I ask your words
what they did, they'll say nothing.
They can't remember
how they were used. They can be
grooms for everyone to marry, again.
They can be teardrop gemstones,
palm leaves, skyrockets. The little
black periods in your letters may grow,
now, to be whole notes, whole nights
released from their blindfolds.

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Copyright © 2021 Elizabeth Hughey All rights reserved
from The Louisville Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission