Upon Returning to West Virginia  

My grandmother thinks birdsong sounds like Take care, take care. 

When I leave Pennsylvania, the ankle starts aching– 

crossing state lines ignites old pain. Peculiar gait, 

walking barefoot beside the Monongahela like it can heal.  

I could follow that river blind. Make my way back home. 

When drunk cowboys jump in, I wait for freezing boys to crawl out, 

their hearts beating through three layers of flannel. Kissing 

is worse in cities that aren’t yours. Pretend like we’re in Pittsburgh, 

I want to say. West Virginia is for work. I love my job but it still feels 

like a job. Even on the best days–summer, sweet breeze, sunlight dappling 

farmland & Pray-for-souls-trapped-in-Purgatory billboards.  

Fixed between two worlds. So tight there is no take care, take care.