by micah daniel mccrotty

for Jon, who said it.

Men came by the house near old Tanasi

with polite stares hunting hooch and spring water,

their query sometimes the frost of panther

breath. Yet wary of popskull and rotgut,

they asked after corn squeezin’s and mountain

dew, shine or maybe banjo fuel when seeking

a rye smile, their various terms a mild

secrecy in reference to the maize

mixtures of Bloody Butcher, Neal’s Pay, or

Jimmy Red. Those bubbling worts mashed into

white lightening tasted of old and new wines.

Some men beat it then took their pull while others

held each jar like a lucky turtle foot

or Cherokee mortar in reverence

for the creek clear remains of native grains

filtered through immigrant stills, a likker

sought for its nearness to history and forgetting.

Micah Daniel McCrotty lives near Piedmont, Tennessee with his wife Katherine. His poetry has previously appeared in The Midwest Quarterly, Louisiana Literature, Spoon River Poetry Review, Sycamore Review, and The Hopper among others.