Rachel Nix

Rivertown

From the edge of the Tennessee River

on the Muscle Shoal's side, we lean

into the humidity sitting atop those still waters.

The sunset hits the old railroad bridge

with all intent to steal the glory of the city

and succeeds,

 

rallying with it the headlights

from cars headed into the humming.

By evening's latter end,

folky new south singers and blues bellowers

have not only taken the city back,

but have stolen the light.

Second Street

I grew tired of his insinuations; I knew he had me

marked for his nightly stop. Before he even had the gall

to push himself against the side of my car, like the others,

and talk down to me as if I had something to hide,

I pushed back. I called his bluff, saying:

Let me blow your stick.

It’s the quickest way to get you off

my back. I want to go home.

Instead, he had me get out of my car,

walk a straight line with my arms out to my sides, stiff

as airplane wings. He had me hold my left foot

six inches above the pavement while I counted

more Mississippis than were needed.

He asked me where I’d been, why I’d been there.

I told him each time it was none

of his business, though he knew.

Positive he’d been waiting for me to leave,

I suspected his blue lights to flick on

as I passed by his parked car. Sheffield cops

were always trying to catch me leaving the bar,

sure they’d catch me drunk at least once.

They profiled me, assumed my old Beretta

was reason enough to stop me. Assumed

because I’m a woman I’d be afraid

or maybe aroused by the way

they gripped their belts

while staring me down.

I played along at times – polite for the sake

of it all – but eventually learned:

they don’t know what to do with a woman

who doesn’t cower down to authority.

Rachel Nix is a native of Northwest Alabama, where pine trees outnumber people and she likes it. She is the Poetry Editor at cahoodaloodaling and Associate Editor at Pankhearst; her work has recently appeared in Rust + Moth, Picaroon Poetry, and Words Dance.