Untitled Poem for Lambs – Olivia Macneil

Down River Road,

the devil’s disciples

testify his word over the FM

as I pass an angel split open

from tummy to neck;

the poor man’s trophy.

I once had a (southern) friend say

this is the South of the North

and she’s right; it makes itself

known in stickers, flags, and how

proper knows nothing here

except tongues spoken to elders;

nothing proper about picketing

to burn the lambs,

but the wolves do it anyway.

Who are they saving?

Their kids, their pride?

They are only lambs,

they say,

so I say it right back.

The South seeps into June, too.

My mother makes sun-tea in dung

hung air and bites at the bittersweetness.

All across the county,

little lambs come together to

sing and dance and love

where the wolves breath is

harder to feel; some lambs

have never seen buildings this tall

or sheep this old.

When the party’s over the lambs

retreat to their pastures but not

without wisdom given by sheep:

The wolves will be there, they always have,

they say,

but so have we.

This is the South of the North.

When the lambs run out of land

they feed on the starred and striped

fields they can’t pitch on. Wolves

will continue to picket, yes, and the

split angels will be strung. In the meantime,

the devil and his disciples should

know this:

There will be kisses

only the creek will know.

There will be dollar store

lipsticks and closet-tucked

shoeboxes full of more.

There will be summer-made

move out funds and hope for

lights brighter than the stars.

There will be gods who hear

prayers you can’t fathom and

they will answer to the lambs.

There will be lambs.

There have always been lambs.