Jnana Hodson
THE 8TH HOLE NATIVE
A gourd where birds dwell
commemorates I’m still alone
rather than waiting for hell to freeze over
or practicing voodoo.
Listen, she’ll insist I’ve been quite peachy
while opening another Bud from the cooler.
But see the adulterated blush. At least
I’m not ripping wings off houseflies or moths.
I’ve been an iron plum
pure hole-in-one
crushing grapes
not detaching legs from spiders
but canning tomatoes
glad summer’s ending.
Even though you say I’m ugly
I never ignore the arrival of spring.
The truth is, I’m beautiful beyond words
thrown from that bronco called devotion.
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