I am unsure of the rationale 
of memory: Why, just now

did I recall the way my mamaw
used to microwave fleas

she found on the dog?
How can I still see kudzu 

clamor over the carport
with its smart sedan,

sense grayness
under  old, old oaks? 

Of all things flea-murder
starts the flood: 

a scabby cockroach
in the night;

the sweetness of
the dining room curtains;

thunder, spring frogs,
lightning bugs.  

I’d never seen them before,
never had been so far 

from home, 
and so long from it.