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            after The Queen of Country, Dolly Parton

 

Drag Queens across the valley

hold their wigs across their hearts

 

and a dive regular plays Taps

with her acrylics on the bar.

 

Doves and does alike

put their white away in mourning

 

and all the hawks of the holler

take a rest from soaring.

 

We all light up cigarettes

and take a swig of shine,

 

pass the jar around, and join

the babe in crying.

 

On the day that Dolly dies

a part of us goes with her,

 

but well after she’s laid to rest

her rhinestones’ll shimmer.