In Alabama, on days when the sky
Shreds clouds in the South,
She rips open her memory, aware
That she cannot find the day her son
Was born, let alone all that
Which went before he even was
Conceived on a truck, a trailer, maybe,
Not far from lanes where dogs trail,
Under the same sky where clouds
Are shredded in the South.
Knowing that he will live and survive
The seasons of despair, knowing
That he’ll reach out to lonely dogs
And shredded skies—without fear.