Gayl Jones

my daddy drank red soda pop.
once he wanted a fleetwood,
then he wanted a navigator,

so he could navigate, check out
his radio towers, deliver flowers,
drive back to give me long kisses,

watch mama burn her books. said nancy
wilson can’t sing but she can style —
hold back the force of random operators/
return to the line refuse to punctuate. a moon —
but his actual drive was watching clay circle,
tight- breath’d hunch, tight shoulder. sweet

nancy wilson was just cold analytics:
the difference between a new coat and the

one with ink on the pocket, calculate
like a fat young minister, strokin’ like
clarence carter, increase like creflo
dollar. mama and me stayed up over

the club, cried sometimes in the same
broke off the same piece left each other
the last piece practiced the same piece
got warm on the same. however,
I’m so full this morning I have
to try and make you understand