The title could be Mosquito Kettles because here they're big as buzzards. Rivers drill at banks and rain pounds dirt down with hammers. Out here you can bathe in the creek and let its grease molest leg hairs. We call it a God Spa. When my in-laws’ factory laid me off, I thought these would be silent years, so the title could be Buckets of Ice because that's where we store their hogs now. The night sky spits chew down to extinguish all lanterns with a cymbal hiss. The title could be Flags Become Freer As Southern Novas because they flap even after you snip eleven stars out with scissors. The chorus could be a Gospel choir clapping to the splatter of bug zappers, but our vocal chords gasp from strangleweed, and the title is still coming to me.
Jeffrey H. MacLachlan also has recent or forthcoming work in New Ohio Review, Eleven Eleven, and The William & Mary Review, among others. He teaches literature at Georgia College & State University.
Followed him on Twitter @jeffmack.