I was born in the mud.
All soft and deep and sticky and cool.
I was born where the reeds shot up higher than my head and where everyone knew my name before i opened my eyes.
I was born where cicadas sung me to sleep in the evenin and the chatter from the river talked all night.
I was born where the sunset drew the longest shadows and where nothin smelled sweeter than magnolia trees.
I grew up where you could learn more on the river than at school and where bonfires burned brighter than the sun.
I grew up where the pretty girls had two first names and the boys bought their kisses with stale beer.
I grew up when the river was the only life for us and the screen doors were always slammin.
I grew up where we pretended the winter didn’t exist and where all our mamas worried when we were out.
I grew up in the passenger seat of our pickup trick and with swampwater in my blood.
I grew up where there were more dirt roads than paved and where the man in the suit was the enemy.
I was born with sunlight in my hair and sweat on my skin.
But I died in a fluorescent room all clean and sanitized.
All sharp and cold and hard and white.