Jasper Kennedy

MY CRANIOTOMY HAS A SOUTHERN ACCENT

I am a Holocene beast trapped in a pit, tar bubbling
over a left eye unblinking, the tacky, black residue
of phantom ekg leads on my chest and violet blooming
from each aborted IV pinch. The flush of salt and
dexamethasone swims in my veins, tries to check
the swelling behind my eyeballs, 

but the angry pressure of stem or lobes comes to
some goldilocks agreement with the palsy of my mouth
to make each syllable drip like pitch, creep and drawl
past my teeth like asphalt sealing the cracks between words,
molds my lips into the shape of vowels gliding, a rhotic redneck
twang that I have never been able to imitate until now,  

and I can struggle all I like, but for the first time
there is no question where I am from.

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