Pacified, he joins his wife in
making room for me to pass, hoop and skirt and all —
we move deeper into the house, admiring relics

like the yellow-lace curtains, or the time-flattened
quilts. Brushes that retain someone’s hair,
and dishes — all look refined, forgotten.

How odd, that I should rustle
my skirts and lead strangers through an old house,
just a brick and oak structure

that is attractive only because
it hasn’t fallen yet, because it was not
burned or marred by grey coats or blue hats —

I don’t falter as I tell
facts mixed with stories. I’ve memorized
the notecards, I look them in the eyes

because I want them — the strangers
come to visit — to remember all this
lace and silk, the Old Dead South.

~~~~~