Elizabeth R. McClellan

What would have been my right hand—
delicate fingers discolored a bit,
a ghost of a ring, a seam at the wrist—

belonged to Miss...

For Betsy Phillips, who knows how the roads lie.

I.

The Devil is a good old boy at heart
who wishes sometimes he knew how to live...

In the enrichment center it is like war

inasmuch as “war” retrieves an observation
about long periods of inactivity punctuated...

When the Devil’s in Nashville
he stops by Third and Union, late,
after the bars close, where

someone always offers half a beer...