Published Fall 2006
 
Dixie Paint
1. Day
We pull into a duplex in a Black
neighborhood in our Dixie Paint
van, confederate flags blazing
on the hood. Day scans the house,
nodding his head in rhythm
with the talk radio. Two boys scavenge
furniture from the yard. The older one,
maybe fourteen, spills down toward us.
I caught a copperhead, want to see?
Yeah, Day grunts. We trail the boy
through the yard, past a pile of worn
out shoes and a rain-rusted grill.
On the porch sits a red plastic cereal bowl,
newspaper over top. Day pushes
off the paper, grins at the baby copperhead.
His face flickers, the boy lifts his chin
at me and winks like we have a secret.
Poverty is nothing but a lazy mindset,
Rush's voice leaks out of the truck, pours
up the hill through the humidity.
The air is liquid. We are swimming. The boy
drifts closer to me, puts his mouth near
my shoulder and whispers, my name's
Bambi. Day's bent over the gold and tan
snake. It shines its diamond head at him.
Beautiful, Day murmurs, Beautiful.
2. Vern
Spent lunch in the back of our paint van
picking machine guns out of a catalogue.
He's got the A/C cranked, Rush turned up.
Vern built his own canon, rifle, and tattoo
gun. They think I'm shy. I breathe
through my teeth, sweep the dust
and dead roaches off the baseboards and
cut a straight line with my brush. Vern
finds excuses to touch me. A scrape on
the back of my neck, paint chip stuck
in my hair. I tell him to fuck off,
but he pops pills all day. Forgets.
3. Day Speaks
I don't talk when I work. It's when
I think. My arms sweep the sprayer,
paint the walls. There's
a rhythm to it. One, two,
one, two. I stroke eight rows
down the wall and it's white.
Makes me think of my Pointer
pacing his pen all day. Taut,
he walks up and back watching
jays bicker in the bushes. Soon,
it'll cool in the mornings.
I'll buy him a basket of doves.
We'll cross Flint River
to the old hay field. I let the birds
go one at a time to make it last.
Doves are whiter than walls.
One, two, my rifle.
One, two, my arms.
4. Rat
I'm in the back of the van
sitting on an upside down
paint-bucket. I gave Rat shot-
gun because of his back.
Day can't find Rush.
He thumbs the AM dial
back and forth between
the Atlanta station and
this one, but nothing.
Finally, he just turns
one up all the way. The
speakers roar with static.
Rush is just a sound, a
tone, a bell ringing clear
through the crackle. Day
relaxes his hand on his thigh.
Rat leans into the voice
and noise until even his
thin hair and the pock
scars on his face fill,
flow over, with love.
5. Vern Decides Because I Won't Try His Illegal Oxycontin I'm An Undercover Cop
A lot of deep wells
in Madison County.
My friend got busted
once by a narc, but
that narc never showed
back up downtown.
I'm gonna call you
Sheriff now, so I don't
forget. A lot of deep
wells. Lime don't dissolve
teeth. Most people
don't know you have
to knock the teeth out.
6. The Last Day
As we load up to drive back to the shop,
Vern locks a crew of Mexican roofers
onto the roof. It's July, 105 degrees.
I hustle down the stairs with the ladder,
five gallon bucket, and caulk gun. Vern's
already sitting shotgun, pumping the A/C.
There another way down? I try to sound
casual. Who cares, he grins. I run up,
unbolt the door. Now here I am,
in the Dixie Paint van. I must be,
can't not be, in some way like him.
Let's go to Fox's, Vern says. Get a beer.
The sun has sunk behind the roofers,
who look down on us from three stories.
They stand upright as turrets, still as stones.
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