Kari Gunter-Seymour: To the Woman in Walmart Who Was Dancing to Shakira in the Pots and Pans Aisle
my own feet beginning to slide
and shuck, drawn into that vortex,
adding my own brand
of Arriba, Arriba to the mix
Kari Gunter-Seymour: A History of Fireworks
It’s July 1st. Whose idea it was to wait
I can’t remember, but me, my son
and two granddaughters, nine and ten,
are at the fireworks warehouse
Kari Gunter-Seymour: An Appalachian Woman’s Guide to Beer Drinking
Drink to the twisted torch of freedom, washed down
with fracking waste, red clay dust, the bitter soot
of coal’s see ya later sucka!
Kari Gunter-Seymour: To No One in Particular
I am never happy to see summer go,
earth stripped of its finest voice.
Kari Gunter-Seymour: Conflagration
I hoped returning
would spark memories, fill her with light,
the way the heat of day warms the bones.
Kari Gunter-Seymour: That Spot where Raccoon Creek Meets Brush Fork
I wish I could say
I lay your body under the honeysuckle
the day you crossed over, let vine and wisp
hang nectar all around you.
Kari Gunter-Seymour: Heartland Hospice
When I was a kid, sick, he’d sing Hank William’s
Hey Good Lookin,’ call me his best girl.
Kari Gunter-Seymour: Last Night the Chime Of Tree Frogs
Granny Woman dances
under breeze-shivering branches,
her skirts a waltz of wings,
mouth full of stories.
She has emptied her house of men.
Kari Gunter Seymour: Planting By the Signs
I hear my grandmother’s voice, a divination,
Thick rolls the mist, that smokes and falls in dew.
