Up north, I don't know how to parse what I need anymore and what I don't, but I do know          
          that green little town is the only part of you that's still left in me. So for once
I stand still, the memories moaning
          at the end of that dirt road, sweating promises into your mouth
between the tall reeds and taller trees,
          furtive, needy lightning bugs in the dark. We cut our palms, said forever
like one lifetime could never be enough to contain us.
          And they berated us with Bibles, your mama still cursing me and mine wept
and wept. But just as sure as we're damned sinners, still
          we just kept running to find each other in the dark.
My god, how we gave ourselves over to it: made suicide pacts after shot guns from strangers
          and mother's knives to throats; drugs, cash, how
they made the good love sound so bad, but only because
          they knew they didn't have what we did, were trapped in the lie
of the house and the yard as enough. But this rabid thing,
          that ripe illicit,
burnt through my skin like adrenaline. Like a wild dog
          running into a house on fire,
whether to rescue myself or get caught in the flames
          and howl into the next life early, I still don't exactly know.
We both left, and now
          we're both back, and any reason is the lie of itself: the only reason to return
is always our eyes, our hands, meeting again past midnight. So take me
          to the diner, swing me into your truck again—close the door soft, now—
everyone's Ambiened anyway, suburbia like a swift swipe to the carotid. This place
          was never meant for us, but we found ourselves in the heat,
took the wild in our hands,
          carved our madness into the magnolia in a heart, last names the same.
We made it ours, for better and for much, much worse, but still
                  the trees always remember, always welcome us
like only they know how deep these things really go.

We're at it again, running to each other. Your mother still thinks I'm the devil,
          and my mama still sees you as the thing that turned me vile, so
we still sneak out. I feel you before I see you—
          you're waiting at the end of the lane
silk oaks and shady groves and your headlights, lighthousing in the humid dark.
          It's been years but we're still
sneaking through the deep green night
          searching for a place to remember the infinite
of all we've always known.
          You make no apologies that it is still like this. The truth is
we have never been able to picture any other way
          it could ever be. And I don't mind it, even
like it. I've learned to. It's all we've ever had.
          I'd dance in your headlights and marry you in your backseat
for as long as my body can still run. I like it, the way your nighttish hair
          now has streaks of grey. Maybe one day we'll be too old for this, but
we haven't got there yet, and I can't imagine
          we ever will. And I like it,
I like the dark. So
          give me the goddamn pomegranate—I'll never stop
eating the seeds. We have always been the other's downfall
          and antidote; we have always been
just what the other craves, pouring and vital
          as summer rain, storming the air
in the endless fact of our need.

__

Tastes Like The Good Days Biscuit Recipe: Combine in a wooden bowl: 6 tablespoons unsalted butter, real cold (you can put it in the freezer), 2 cups sifted flour, 1 tablespoon baking powder, ¼ teaspoon baking soda, pinch of salt, 1 cup ice-cold buttermilk. Roll into balls and pop them on the baking sheet—put them in the freezer for 10 minutes, then bake at a hellish 450 for 10 minutes. Serve with apple butter and the sound of Spanish moss swaying sultry-sweet on the late summer breeze.