Antebellum by Gregory Pardlo

Antebellum 

Unfinished, the road turns off the fill

from the gulf coast, tracing the bay, to follow

the inland waterway. I lose it in the gritty

limbo of scrub pine, the once wealth

—infantile again, and lean—of lumber barons,

now vested in the state, now sanctuary for renegades

and shamans, for pot growers and moonshiners,

the upriver and clandestine industries that keep

mostly to themselves.

 

Misting over a lake-front terraced lawn, evening’s pink

tablet, japanning lawn and lake, magnolia leaf,

ember easing, dips and gives gilt to the veiled

nocturne vanishing in the view: the hint of maison

through the woods faint as features pressed on

an ancient coin. Swart arms of live oaks that hag

their bad backs surreptitiously, drip Spanish moss

like swamp things out of where a pelican taxis limp-

legged across the lake, pratfalls awkward as a drunk

on a bike. The bat above me, like a flung wristwatch.