In perpetual dusk and curls,
skeeters are a thing
’round here, but they
won’ bother you if
you dress in the colors of
the sun or the patterns of
Granma’s curtains and are
a ma’am or missus or, better
yet, a miss
because they will
mistake your pale smoothness
for porcelain from
which orchid women
with chiffon breaths sip
lavender tea and partake of
ambrosia underneath the
porch roof in white wicker
furniture behind white
columns under the impression
they are Greek goddesses
of poise
hospitality
& husband-hunting
Careful now, those deviled
eggs might be dusted
with rust, not paprika
The cure to every
ailment ’round here:
listen to your momma
go to church
find yourself a nice man who
can listen and sweat
and have a daughter who
can type and smile
real wide