Children Born After the War

Somewhere on the road is everything you want:

cantaloupe, okra, roast peanuts overflowing

their bags. Muscadine jelly and moonshine

syrup, each in a heavy glass jar.

Everything rises: mayhaw choked by cane.

Thank your rubber tires and the smooth coins

in your palm. Thank your grandfather

and his battalions of boys. The road here

to Tulsa is lined with track. And each bright

fruit you tongue out of its shell

comes as if on air—no trace of origin, no thorn.