remanants

in the backroad where

   i hang onto the winding

     tracks of the heart the way

       mother wove the braids into

     my hair even when i cried–

  she’s pulling too tight at

the tangled cobwebs in

 the kitchen window

   white reflections of 

      silver dew drops once

       all too familiar to the gaze

        that clutched my girlhood–

     these things that no longer

  hug the temple of my head

the way the broken struts

 of my 2000s sudan

   hug the shock of oak roots,

      lumps of doe meat, and lost 

       hooves of appalachian myths

     woven into the backroad’s

    pavement like the carrion of

the daughter i once was.