See Seven States (TAPE)

Description

Poem by Alea Coble (February 2026) - Written for Andrew Weathers, Chattonooga Recording Project Listen to my story and everything will come out true. - Bessie Smith 35° 02' 44.27" N -85° 18' 34.85" W: Howl. Hammer strikes firing pin. Its echo ricochets over river bend. The woodpecker’s syncopated pop-pop-pop clink and thwap in time with cops practicing prayer at the firing range. Quick. Sketch a few constellations onto a postcard: empty shotgun shells, these pre-forgotten fossils snaking rusted railroad spikes, like snagged rosary, fallen poplar petals draped over cerulean glass ashtray scattered along glittering fractures, ignored like a treaty. Train tracks reverberate necrophilic boomerang-hunger for mountain air without that coal dust. Eat. Eat. Everything is real estate. Even the air is for sale. Buy it cheap while I.C.E. carves through the valley along the Trail of Tears in unmarked SUVs, traffic stops. Howl. Callback to estranged entanglements oscillating over holler and highway. Meet on the porch. Haint-blue ceiling. Some ghosts can’t get through anyway. They got tied up on the Walnut Street Bridge by a mob of white spit. Howl. The South should scare you. But the woodpecker is still nesting, hungry, typing uncannied punctuation marks into black oak: a deed. Home? Takes a side-eyed knowing to call by name. The moon sickles in a sweating glass of iced tea. Speculation cycle: symmetry as ancient as sour-dank betrayal of the tongue, bitter bones binding blood and lead, alchemical forgetting like I found a hairbrush in the yard while planting wild irises, like someone is charging $10 for an old glass Coke bottle, like semicolons itching restless under new sod from no-one-knows-where. Howl. Sing back. History is soil-in-stereo. How will this line end? Like riverbank? Like atlatl arching hope smash-through a stained glass window? Words fall out of the sky, and 30 American flags snap at attention on the bridge. Howl. A shift in the wind gallops through the streets tossing her head back, laughing. Tennessee River, who once kissed Pangea, how she softens at the knuckle-suck of it all, that secret-sweet stowed in the feathers of sandhill cranes lifting up on warm summer breeze: slow-shooting stars bending toward unbothered brevitas. Howl. The red wolf knows her truest kin is always her shadow’s shadow.