Down where the cane fields blister the air
And the river tastes of tin,
She keeps her rifle above the stair
And a snake beneath her skin.
They call her Miss Delilah Grace,
With molases in her drawl,
But I have seen her sharpen lace
Against the stable wall.
She rides at dusk when fever comes,
When the cicadas hiss like steam .
Her mare all bone and silver gums,
Her shadow long and lean.
I met her by the slaughter shed
Where peach skins spoil to wine,
She pressed her thumb against my head
And said, Your pulse is mine.
Oh Delilah, sweet and slow,
With your tobacco breath,
You taste of sugarcane and woe,
And something close to death.
We lie out back of the livery,
Where the hay is damp and sweet,
She counts my ribs like rossary
With hands of iron heat.
Her laugh slips loose like wagon chains
Dragged hard across a floor,
She ksses me where summer stains
And asks me back for more.
We have dug a narrow bed
Beneath the cotton tree,
Where ants crawl red around our spread
Like witnesses to be.
She says, My father broke wild mares,
I break what looks like you.
She braids my hair with baling snares
And pulls the ribbon through.
Oh fever-bride of Delta clay,
With your bitten lip and sly grin,
If loving you’s a stray bullet,
Then let it lodge within.
We’ll salt the meat and drain the well,
We’ll let the parlor rot
Let Sunday ring its brittle bell,
We’ll answer it with not.
At night she hums a cattle tune
Low as a mourning dove,
And under that thin souhtern moon
She brands my wrist with love.
If they find us pale at dawn,
With dirt between our teeth,
Say we were only riding on
Toward somewhere underneath.
For love like ours grows strange and wild
In fields the good men shun,
Two girls in love, river-smiled,
With sugar on the gun.
Feb 20
Feb 20, 2026 at 2:09 PM UTC
Down where the cane fields blister the air
And the river tastes of tin,
She keeps her rifle above the stair
And a snake beneath her skin.
They call her Miss Delilah Grace,
With molases in her drawl,
But I have seen her sharpen lace
Against the stable wall.
She rides at dusk when fever comes,
When the cicadas hiss like steam .
Her mare all bone and silver gums,
Her shadow long and lean.
I met her by the slaughter shed
Where peach skins spoil to wine,
She pressed her thumb against my head
And said, Your pulse is mine.
Oh Delilah, sweet and slow,
With your tobacco breath,
You taste of sugarcane and woe,
And something close to death.
We lie out back of the livery,
Where the hay is damp and sweet,
She counts my ribs like rossary
With hands of iron heat.
Her laugh slips loose like wagon chains
Dragged hard across a floor,
She ksses me where summer stains
And asks me back for more.
We have dug a narrow bed
Beneath the cotton tree,
Where ants crawl red around our spread
Like witnesses to be.
She says, My father broke wild mares,
I break what looks like you.
She braids my hair with baling snares
And pulls the ribbon through.
Oh fever-bride of Delta clay,
With your bitten lip and sly grin,
If loving you’s a stray bullet,
Then let it lodge within.
We’ll salt the meat and drain the well,
We’ll let the parlor rot
Let Sunday ring its brittle bell,
We’ll answer it with not.
At night she hums a cattle tune
Low as a mourning dove,
And under that thin souhtern moon
She brands my wrist with love.
If they find us pale at dawn,
With dirt between our teeth,
Say we were only riding on
Toward somewhere underneath.
For love like ours grows strange and wild
In fields the good men shun,
Two girls in love, river-smiled,
With sugar on the gun.
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