you gotta go yourself

no-one talks like the old widow over at mcsweeney’s farm.
no-one speaks about it like she, with her missing teeth and feathered hat;
with long pauses between “cow” and “juniper”, and drags and drags of pipe;
she’s got a way of looking at you just when you clean your teeth with your fingernail –
the words she uses, though, they fall weighty and straight
and no-one has yet been found who forgets them
even after she’s plied you with moonshine and fat sausages
and your mind is addled after hours of listening to her slow voice –
the old widow, she spells it all out for you. you can’t escape her truth.
i wish i could tell you.
but you gotta go yourself.

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