By Elise Pfeiffer
(After Allen Ginsberg’s “America”)
I.
Kentucky, I think about breaking up with you all the time. Kentucky, my father says you have a rude voice. Kentucky, I have a crush on your best friend. Her songs make me cry and I daydream that she wrote them all for me. Kentucky, I’m fed up with your sadness. Why did I let you take the rest of my cigarettes? Kentucky, I jumped the gun when I let you kiss me. You never know what to do with my body. Kentucky, I’ve still never been with a girl and you insist I never will. You push and prod me like the cattle that graze on your grassy blue. Kentucky, I’m just not in love with you and I’m not sure that you can even tell.
II.
Kentucky, your cheeks are ruddy and filled with stupid stuffs. Your hills are blatantly unorganized and slim. Kentucky, I ought to be more gentle with you. I know you can’t bounce back like I can. Kentucky, you’re not just a piece of money, a piece of flesh. Your people they live under stones. Kentucky, I’m sorry I treat you like a stage one night and a dumping ground for my shit-filled mason jars the next. Kentucky, you are Persephone darkened by funny-men who saw your roosters as a tourist attraction. Kentucky, for a moment I forgot how unsexy smoke is. It’s a dangerous sport we’re playing with you, dear and Kentucky, I’m doing my best to convince the others to love you again.
III.
Kentucky, I’m going through an identity repair. I stand at your mountain bottoms, combative, and scream. I’m so angry, Kentucky. I haven’t had an epiphany in weeks. Kentucky, my mother says we’re codependent. I think about breaking up with you all the time but when I get down to the choreography of blame. Kentucky, I can’t make myself blame you. You’re addicted to anxiety drugs. Kentucky, when did you become such a boy? Kentucky, I can’t find your footnotes — I’m at a loss for words. I guess I’ll go join the workforce. Down in the wet parts of your coal belly, there’s a mandate of Silence, so Kentucky, please don’t speak to me.
