American Life in Poetry

The following poem by Kathryn Stripling Byer is the second in a series of related poems called “Southern Fictions.” Despite all the protective barriers we put up between us and the world, there’s always a man with a wink that can rip right through. Byer has served as North Carolina’s Poet Laureate.

I still can’t get it right

I don’t know. I still can’t get it right,

the way those dirt roads cut across the flats

and led to shacks where hounds and muddy shoats

skulked roundabouts. Describing it sounds trite

as hell, the good old South I love to hate.

The truth? What’s that? How should I know?

I stayed inside too much. I learned to boast

of stupid things. I kept my ears shut tight,

as we kept doors locked, windows locked,

the curtains drawn. Now I know why.

The dark could hide things from us. Dark could see

what we could not. Sometimes those dirt roads shocked

me, where they ended up: I watched a dog die

in the ditch. The man who shot him winked at me.