Jess Smith

You’ll Never Leave Harlan Alive

When my Grandpa Tom died
in the coal mines, crushed between 
two untrammeled carts, did he think
I’ll never again be touched by a woman?
Did he feel, as a cart full of sooty coal
shoved his cock into his stomach, I hope
my offspring fuck so hard that they pee
sideways? Did he groan and wail? Did he cry out
Make love, ye children of mine, while you can?
Did he hope for us a life of forceful,
fussy orgasm? Ammons said if you can 
get laid, get laid, and I’ve taken it
too much to heart, my mortality
with its rhythmic, 
                               headboard quality.
I can’t help him, or you. I sing Tom’s song
from the bluest hills: I am a hillbilly hoe,
a backwoods throat goat. I’ll hitchhike
right into your heart. Was Tom’s belly
as flour soft as mine? Were his lips Fanta red
before they turned blue? What would he think
of the Plan B I took that didn’t take? Of the son
I named for him? I won’t be like those old 
bucket-wheels sitting ceremonial outside 
the empty mines. My pickaxe
still swings at the dead wall. I’ll shovel 
coal into your mouth as if 
it were money. I’ll let you think I’d die 
for you as you’re crushed between 
these two untrammeled carts I call my heart.

Heirloom

the only photo you have of your daddy
is his expired Georgia driver’s license, 

          and now they went 
and burned him up in an oven 
          along with all your chances. 

inside the single-wide
where he died, 

          he had a picture of you at sixteen
and you don’t know how 
          he got it since he hadn’t seen you since 

before puberty. in that picture
you sure don’t look pretty. 

          but he knew your mama 
                         was pretty in 1983 
          and everybody’s always saying to hold

two aspirin between your knees 
just like your mama didn’t do. 

          what legacy. she’s still a girl
                         steering his old cadillac 
          with one hand, newborn in the other. 

some men can only be left
when they’re sleeping. 

          did you hear about that family
                         who owned 
          the funeral home? how they threw

corpses in the river? 
they returned the urns to next of kin

          filled with dirt. no one 
                         teaches you 
          how to make a living.

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