White Hot Honky Tonk
She wears the mark of her Father, of bourbon and ash, gathered gradually from long walks on Lower Broadway, stopping to hear the sounds of centuries whenever possible. She wears the mark of a far flung destroyer, music always in her ears. Away from humid land. Away from the smell of cut grass and the NASCAR dreams of weekends spent in yards with beer bottles and shirtless children running wild like puppies.
See the city as it should be seen teeth bared tribal fires blood trails on the sidewalks. Wandering the corner of 7th and Broad she moves with a swing that makes cars stop, that draws offers, incantations,the whiskey and smoke soaking her to the bone. Tumescent dreams too much for one head rend the heart, human sacrifice as she tries to give them birth these ideas, these betrayals.
The city can adjust you, can pour the whisky and smoke down your throat.
It just happens.
Dogs forgive. Mothers forgive.
Forgiveness is a word, a comfort word.
She wears the mark of her Father.
~ Clint Brewer
97 Fredericksburg Literary & Art Review Volume 3, Issue 1
FLAR is an independently published literary and art magazine located in Fredericksburg, Virginia.