L.R. Harvey Poetry

Re-wiring A short somewhere, and sparks:  Dead ladybug wedged  in wicker, spray-painted green— Mower’s tight turn  round the elderberry  bush, leaves dewing clean   the tires—fat fly circling  the teacher’s baldspot  the way I’ve hovered round  God’s helipad, hoping  to touch down. This world,  these flashes: what are we fixing to let it make of us? 

U6 Late August. Everyone’s shirts were soaked. By rights  the parents had worked  enough to earn more than a lawn chair. A storm  building, 14 miles east  per Layla’s dad. Elijah’s wasn’t  there. Most of them  still stopped the ball  with their hands when it got rolling too fast. Sometimes,  mid-practice, I forget  just what it is we’re drilling for.  We gathered beneath the gray,  stacked sticky hands and waited for Elijah, who put the burned skin of his re-membered one right on top. We thundered.

French Drain Quote How the house is built  you can't hill soil up  the siding, level out  the grade. A little self- forgiveness: You weren't there when the land was made. Downspouts help but won’t address how Georgia clay holds rain like a thick, wet resentment, swelling to buckle  the basement’s knees. No one’s saying it’s free,  but life at such a degree  means shaping oneself  a vein through the heart of the yard, pumping its share of the downpour towards  more fruitful pursuits  on the other side: Bee Balm  and Buttonbush, the comeback miracle of mushroom.

Where He’s From   Even then it mattered much  to him, how he was born  in South Carolina, raised in North. No one asked, or cared, but he  split hairs on his right  to the Palmetto sticker stuck  on his high school truck, felt his edges peel up round  Tar Heel games and low-country broils both. How could he have known  it was the tension to which his life  would persistently adhere? Hell, with even heaven and earth, wherever his tires touch  and just past the reach  of his high beams, his soul  is humming in the inter-state,  both there and here.