Her practical hand pounds out the bread dough.
Those hands always clean, a white lace curtain
pulled back from the window, fine red nails like
blood against the lace.
They say the South is full of them.

A horse named Iron threw her, and she
landed on a boy's lap. She married
him though he was poor and his
brother sold his land away
to the TVA. And one day he
killed her brother, but could
not kill her love. And the
brother was buried and their children
born and their hearts beat in
unison until his slowed and stopped
and her lonely, lonely heart beat
without purpose
for so long.

One day, her grandchild cried
because he could not find love
and she told him about her love and knew
why she had lived. Tell the story, she told
him, love always finds its way.