Whistling Dixie

I would move to the South

just to taste the spice on your lips

and lose my consonants

in the red clay.

I hate snakes,

but for you

I’ll make an exception

because a ramshackle house

with a creaky front porch

and ripped screens in the windows

is sounding pretty appealing

right about now.

If I knew how

to grow a garden,

I’d tuck myself

into Appalachia

and never be heard from again.

I want to love you

in a place

where they’ve never heard

of Vera Wang

or American’s Next Top Model.

I want to wear an apron

made from an old canvas sack

and write poetry

with mud on my calves.

I swear,

I’d kiss your farmer’s tan

and pop out

as many babies as you want

just don’t make me turn on the radio ever again.