A Break-Up Letter with the South

Do you hate the South?

I do, but it hated me first

When I wasn’t nothin’ but sweet

In poisonous, endless Indian summer

Boiled in a wet, Waxahatchee sunburn

Am I a southern writer already?

That Pensacola curse

Stains my blood and skin

Irreversibly dark

Though trees show more of their roots here

More magnolias stamped on scrap wood

Than out here in the Creator’s putrid musk

I daydream gators bark, skeeters snicker

‘Round here, you learn really quick

Just say “Roll Tide” and he’ll go away

Southern ladies snap their fingers, “Bingo”

No sign of Prine’s Angel here, a myth

Anyone can find your bugs and worms

When they lift up your rock

Before I defect and resume life as a Yankee

I’ll give the most southern middle finger

You ever taught me

“Bless your heart”