How many elegies does it take to get to the center 
of a hit dog’s holler?

As many as the Treaties, as broken as their authors
Warshed up on the banks of Wells Fargo
Tellin’ the whole world that hit dog’s story —
Dog couldn’t do nothin’ but bark anyhow —
One of salvation, submission, and glory

While the hit dog limps back to an old La-Z-Boy
Whose pensions are gone now —
But the factory still runnin’, how? —
And curls up in a wounded ball of Ain’t Dead Yet
To breathe.

How many elegies can Granma recite over the dutch oven
Before stew is ready on the table tonight,
While the fire sings harmony to fill the gaping loss
Of the Words who were killed
In the forced removals?

How many elegies could have been dinners
With cousins who instead chose to bed down with sinners
Writing “Hillbilly Elegy” on the pillowcase set
He’ll use to deliver what he’s promised all his kin yet:
No more Words of our own.

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With gratitude to Brody Parrish Craig for the writing prompt in the wake of indescribable betrayal by my distant cousin who calls himself JD Vance.