Carol M. Highsmith, Vintage automobile at the Hopson Plantation site on the outskirts of Clarksdale, in Mississippi's Delta region, 2017
Digital photograph
Image courtesy of the Library of Congress
in the beginning there were white owls with the faces of women
the ones your grandmother warned you about
the ones your mother said were only Mexican folklore
but now you see them everywhere
as you drive late at night on a road
that turns sharply like a wind-up toy,
reminding you it doesn’t belong to you & never will
you know the remedy: hug
the curves until they croon for you
like your grandmother’s music boxes
you’ve always known how to charm
a place into loving you back
but for now— this state, this road, & even the sky
doesn’t belong to you
your want sparks
a miracle of white feathers
your want cores you
awake each morning
you come from a long line of wandering men—
men who cut night in half
just to leave a city
with an infant cooing in her sleep
in the beginning women sold their hearts
for freedom & were vilified in legends
you’re the first girl in your family
to never stop moving
your legend is that you write your own legend
heartless girl, if you don’t keep moving
any place could become a cage
& you’ve already escaped once
luck doesn’t occur twice, you know