Red Dirt

My blood is red
Because Arkansas dirt is red.

Examine my skin cells
Under the scrutiny
Of a microscope.
You will find red dirt.

I grew up playing
In red dirt
The way Yankee kids
Rolled in sand boxes.

Red dirt
Lines my lungs
It’s biologic
Cultural
Spiritual
It’s in my DNA.

My speech is fashioned
By overwhelming buckets of
Red dirt.
It’s the root of my thinking
The gee of my haw.

There are no
Red roads
On your map
But they’re there
And I’ve driven them.

I’ve plumed the sky
With clouds of red dust
Jetting behind my Ford
Rising like granular flame
To thinly coat
Weeds, trees and dogs
Left in my wake.

I’ve chased bulls
In red dirt
And they’ve chased me.
I’ve kicked red dirt
Worked in red dirt
Spit in red dirt
Sat in red dirt
Lay in red dirt
And loved in red dirt.

I’ve cussed it
Blessed it
Loved it
And left it.

My ancestors sleep
In the red dirt
They tilled
Sewed and worked
For generations
And someday I may make
My bed in red dirt too.

But only if I’m lucky.