A Bitter Root

[Verse 1]
The third dry summer since the well gave up.
Pokeweed berries stain the lip of a tin cup.
Found your recipe box, the latch all siezed with rust,
For a poultice to draw fever from the dust.

[Chorus]
It’s a bitter root and a whisper-weight of gin,
A river stone, and where the damp gets in.
I follow the lines your iron-gall ink bled,
And I don’t hear a word you never said.

[Verse 2]
The dog-day cicadas are sawing the heat in two,
My knuckles smell like copper, trying to be you.
“Mind the bindweed,” it’s written, a faded, spidery hand,
On the back of a deed for a piece of somebody’s land.

[Chorus]
It’s a bitter root and a whisper-weight of gin,
A river stone, and where the damp gets in.
I follow the lines your iron-gall ink bled,
And I don’t hear a word you never said.

[Bridge]
And maybe this poison is the only thing that’s true—
This dirt remembers more of you than I do.

[Outro]
The jar on the sill sweats a cloudy ring.
It's the wrong kind of quiet this medicine will bring.