The south. Is home. Is less cold. Is warmer in tone. Is yellow. Is saltwater. Takes its time. Is Scarlet O'Hara isn't Scarlet O'Hara at all. Is my grandfather's house. Is the azalae bushes outside my grandfather's house and in the park in April if not March. Is moss that you don't even realize is there it just is. Is stiff drinks and sweet drunks. Is music. Is pink and gray and green and bricks and shadows. Is cemeteries. Is no liquor sales on Sunday. Is related to itself. Holds the door. Is irreverent. Is reverence. Is 2011. Is a puppet show. Smiles behind your back. Has electricity (it runs on gossip). Likes to dance with strangers. Is tailgating. Is wars and shit (it's history). Reckons. Is old. Is there. Is sunburned. Sneaks out of her house and steals the car. Is beer battered and deep fried. Is which Fogarty are you, Beth's daughter? Is every now and then a confederate flag. Is backwards. Moves forward. Is MLK Blvd. Is dirty. Is magic. Is hurricane evacuation routes. Holds a grudge. Has teeth. Is beautiful and smells like something perfect. Is gravy. Is real. Is far away. Is manners. Is violent. Is Wal Mart. Is stubborn. Lost its ass in a war. Is chicken. Drives fast. Is that time I saw a horse at a gas station. Is old money. Is poor. Is hilarious. Is moribundity in motion. Is history (it's wars and shit). Is Athens in November. Is married at 23. Isn't banjos. Is trouble. Is dirt roads. Is highways. Stings. Doesn't sound like that. Remembers. Is incestuous. Is muttonchops and pleated pants. Is art. Is porch swings. Is nice to your face. Is sweat and the sound crickets make when you're sweating. Is bugspray and the way bugspray tastes. Is crosses and coffee and doughnuts on Sunday. Is chains you can't see. Is words you don't know.