Graham Irvin

my mother was cruising the manure highway

her voice spoke an endless fog 
she asked how do you make friends with pig death 
every man had white eyes and farm hands
eighteen agricultures were making bacon 
from goldsboro to bolivia 
somewhere is a hometown no one pronounces
blood was a river george washington couldn’t cross
the sky was blue and a baby’s pupils boiled
no one was left to cut the kudzu
main street smelled like spit in chinquapin 
she raised us in an ivy growth insane asylum 
our eviction note was written on chipped paint 
breakfast was a dry pond hugged by scum children 
sunflower dollars weren’t worth the exchange
we could sit and breathe and not notice a thing

Graham Irvin is from Kannapolis, North Carolina. His chapbook The Woods are now a Traffic Jam and my Family is Deleting Itself was published by Really Serious Literature. His writing has appeared in X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine,Soft CartelSouth Broadway Ghost ReviewThe Nervous BreakdownInstant Lit Magazine, and Philosophical Idiot. Follow him on Twitter @grahamjirvin and Instagram @trash_gram_.