Mary Helen Callier

In Hamilton, Georgia I Think About Philomela

Driving in the late August green,
our car bending to the curves around the lake.
We talk all day and never say
exactly what we mean. Two horses
with their necks crossed
huddle out the window. It’s that resting I want now,
not so much reaching towards.
The heat so thick it ricochets
around the shack on 27. Your voice gets caught
inside of it, an old pinball machine.
Becky called again. And Donny’s back in jail.
I can’t understand a word she says. He must’ve
cut her tongue off, is what I think you said,
your profile alive against the kudzu.
Twice, the horse had raised its tail to flick
a fly away. Twice, I tried to say something
but all I said was “shit.” The green then
swallowed everything. Two people
who can’t speak. When the horses
in the field dissolve, they emit a terrible light.