Stars on Alabama

We lived our little drama.

We kissed in a field of white.

And stars fell on Alabama last night.  ~Mitchell Paris

Oh, those stars over Alabama.

How they fell in tender light

upon the fields of soft,

white buds, plucked

by your dark, scarred fingers

to show me the stubborn

seeds nestled there.

How the moon creases

the ochre sky tonight,

how I can taste red clay

in the cracks of my lips

takes me back to you,

to your dim room where

your mama’s quilt dressed

your sentimental bed,

and the smell of scotch

and weed wafted

like your fingers along my skin.

We slow-danced the blues,

and our lips pressed together

kept the secret between us:

How you could’ve been hanged for birth

and I could’ve been burned for love.

But we never spoke of this, only met

as the quad tower tolled the library’s closing—

you, gunning your daddy’s red Ford and me,

breathless and laughing, running to catch up.

You drove us to that field, gave me

something soft, and then hard-pressed

between your naked hands, I shuddered

white stars in a black sky.

Remember this, I whispered.

I’ll remember this, you said.  

And you cradled my head in your neck,  

chewed on a blade of grass while I inhaled

the woods of you, and we both just let it be,

let it all go without words.

© Ami Mattison

Flickr photo courtesy of Katie Harbath