Consider

the earth clinging

to the roots of wild

onions pulled from

the garden each spring

—holding fast to thin

white filament, heedless

the whole enterprise

is failing; resolute,

even when shaken—

refugees quietly

settling the shallow

lines of your palm,

still hopeful for asylum

in the murderous country.

Cruel

Starved stick bone

cows gobbling up

fat calves, skeleton

corn spitting plump

kernels from rotten

mouths, purple hills’

pinched faces turned

the very same shade

as mother Mary’s

that afternoon her

firstborn son talked

back to her in front

of a crowd—wilted

and shamed and what

was it for—sleep

shorn nights, sore

engorged breasts

wracked with rivers

of stone, tender

shards of shared

mornings, evenings

and afternoons swiftly

ground away in woman,

what does that concern me?

Damascus Road

Youth-folly.

When I had the cream skin

I was a sinner.

Cavorting in each square

lifting my shapely leg

to piss in the fountains of God.

Then blight snapped

my proud princess neck,

maggots squirming around

my knocked down knees

as I gagged and praised

Holy! Holy! Holy!

My only remaining Suitor

unseen and taciturn.

After the Prodigal Returned

he kept at his big-chest strutting

around, chuckling at those of us

whose hands had stuck to the plow,

plodding animals with no imagination

but to obey. His first Sunday back

in the pew his eyes shone with rank

pride—gazing beyond slot-and-tab

tombstones to something half-coiled,

wanton—basking in butter slathered

sun. The next day his grateful family

invited us all to the fatted calf feast—

a hog yanked from the woods, its

throat promptly slit on behalf of one

who almost missed the meal prayer

on account of having gone behind

the smokehouse to regale some young

impressionables with tales of his most

recent exploits. Handed my portion

I nodded my thanks then sat down

on a nearby stump quietly chewing,

ruing the golden autumn afternoons

the charred flesh on my plate might

have spent snuffling yet for chestnut

and acorn scattered across the forest

floor, its dripping snout quivering,

full of honest enjoyment.

Vow

Near the end, she babbled, wanting

things. Whenever we held up a spoon

of chicken broth to her pale worm lips

she’d push it away—punishing herself

as my mother rushed to the other room

to weep for this shriveled up creature

who once tore both her hands plucking

her baby the juiciest blackberry God ever

strung inside a thick crown of thorn.

The night father took down his fiddle

and began to play Ora Lee she screeched

so loud the wood flew away from his chin

and almost broke—startled varnished bird.

Given all the trouble she was causing,

I wished she would—just once—bolt up

crying I see bright living souls nailed into coffins

of flesh, buried angels swimming deep in the grain.

To speak of the winter fox or blood moon

creeping nearer our door. But she just lay

on her soured pillow silent, spider spittle

crusting one more circle round her mouth

as I tore off my apron and ran outside—

admonishing coal skinks sunning themselves

on flat rocks—Sal’s left in the grass again

corn husk doll. Don’t take the fruit. Don’t die.

Coffle

The Slave Trail of Tears is the great missing migration—a thousand-mile-long river of people, all of them black, reaching from Virginia to Louisiana. During the 50 years before the Civil War, about a million enslaved people [were forced] from the Upper South—Virginia, Maryland, Kentucky—to the Deep South—Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama.

—Edward Ball (Smithsonian)

A man with a white

hat and coat the color

of those mushrooms

you never eat, loud

talking, ruled the show.

Mr. big stripey britches

sat way up on a horse

holding a gun like a baby

he sometimes put down

to take an onion out

of the mushroom coat

and grab a quick bite

and what came after

was two by two by two

by two of men glued

together with a long

silver chain followed

by women with rope

tied round their scabbed

wrists and the sound

of hundreds singing,

a short man with a banjo

hopping around playing

the same dumb tune

and when he was done

he’d just start it again,

bobbing his fat neck

while his skinny friend

threw his little pale

arms out and out

wider and wider

so the voices wouldn’t

stop and the dusty feet

would stay in step

with other dusty feet

“As I went up the new-cut road/

I spied a possum and a toad”

you never seen so

many bodies filing

by, an army of stinking,

sweating bug-bit open

-sored legs marching

over the land followed

by a parade of creaking

wood wagons stuffed

with old and maybe

sick folks because

there was coughing

and some groaning

and there were kids

walking too, girls

who wouldn’t look

over at me and a boy

my age or a year older

biting his lip til it bled

and there were men

loudly cracking whips

and doing a lot of yelling:

‘don’t drag behind—

only seven more miles

for the day,’ men saying

whoever sang loudest,

man, woman, or child

with the biggest pipes

would get themselves

a treat—a wide chunk

of fresh green granny

apple Mr. Emerson will judge

and since nothing much

ever really happens here

I started walking behind

though a man with one

bent ear that looked

chewed by a dog yelled,

“Scat, girl” but I didn’t

listen and kept following

til the two by two by two

came to the dock of the

River New, that great

gushing swerve of water

daddy sometimes fishes

if he gets a day off,

and they had the string

of raggedy men wade

right in as if they were

supposed to be Moses

parting the river

but the river didn’t

part, cold water

up to their waists

chests and necks

and still they sang,

higher and louder

no Noah’s ark

just the flood

and them pairs

yelling out words

about proud gals

and eating mush

as the mushroom

coat man still sat

up there on his horse

smoking a cloud,

yelling “easy, easy

boys, if one slips

the rest will follow”

and before I could

even start to think

or worry about

them all drowned

they started flinging

women and children

on flatboats, shoving

them off as the silvery

chain started dancing

again and the men

wound tight about

that silvery chain

stepped up onto

the other bank,

dripping and singing

I wish I was back

in Old Kentuck

singing as they went

some other place

that must have been

even farther away

from wherever it

was they came

than ever before

so I turned back

and when I sat

at the table that

night my mother’s

stupid-dead eyes

said what did you

see made you so late

and the look I shot

back said nothing

then father said—

without even caring

where have you been

and I said nowhere

taking a bite of beet,

chewing it to mash

and pulp as a fresh

stone crying LIAR

LIAR LIAR popped

up in the graveyard

behind the church.

Same Old

Feed me thick enough

water, gruel gussied up

with two thick pinches

or more of potato flour

and I’m scared I’ll start

dreaming again about

cakes lined up on lace

paper doilies, regal ones

tall as hats, sugar dust

specking the warm, hot

air—pink and blue iced

roses with yellow leaves

not yellow ’cause they’re

sick—just a noble fine

color curling all around.

So much fuel in my gullet

I begin to believe I’ll be

welcomed in and offered

any toothsome I want—

told to keep on eating

til a big hole gobbles up

the famished sky, a silver

fork with a soft ribbon

thrown into my blistered

hand. In that poisonous

glittering dream, everyone

real or not real I’ve ever

loved, adored, or wanted

to talk to for just a minute

(please) is there but I’m not

begging, I’m the honored

guest, the only interesting

thing, no one glancing

past my raisin burned face

to see who’s strolling in next.

Last Chore

Leave abstraction (cold, unfathomable

as Christ’s dead brow) for the pail’s

worn wood handle—erstwhile pining

for curry comb bristles still panting

with flecks of skin and glistening hair.

No more ‘where oh where is God’s

stoutest truth’ pointing towards

the stars then towards your scrawny

caved in chest useless poet mooning!

Last night we lost a calf to that.

The world you can’t ever seem

to find without blacking your

eye—bruising your shin is here—

its membranes and fluids smeared

in my boots’ rusted eyelets.

Before you step in this house again,

wade out to the end of these sun

scorched rows and whistle sharp—

retie your skittish mind to its

stern tether of sinew and shank—

the subtle, more dependable wiles

of porch-light, leaf-litter, bone rot.

Late Knowledge

The sluggish ridge and its correspondingly

drab shingle of low slung sky, one promise

made to a man whose reflection was dull

as my own, twin lice tucked away in the woods

to fester, wane, decompose under smoldering

cinnamon fern til I almost cursed our stale

breath and stove-smoke hair, all the sloughed

off bodies our lackluster bed gradually accrued,

resenting their endless needs and wants while

trudging the long path harnessed hairpin

tight to the day’s demands, an ass too stupid

to notice the light was already changing

until a thin strand of geese steadily laboring

overhead finally allowed me to see this place

as a traveler coming in from far away must

view it—wideness flaring in the narrow acre—

the surrounding hills remaining themselves

even as they became something else entire,

barns, hayfield, and pond swiftly transfiguring,

everyone else too intent on their darning, raking,

hoeing, mending—too busy enjoying dusk’s

allotted few minutes of precious casual chatter

to hear two small sorry knots of fist pounding

against the pane, begging to be let in.

The Christening Cup

He awoke to a bitter in the saliva,

itching between neck and collar

he had not counted. Sitting up,

he slowly blinked his eyes awake

to a ring of drying sedge strung

around his weary body. Barking

for attention, no one answered.

Out in the front parlor, the Bible

box was empty save for the seeds

already set aside for next year’s

crops, the heavy book therein

splayed out on its Battenberg

doily—a few strands of Timothy

hay marking Daniel chapter four—

the wild tale of a self-righteous

King driven out of the castle

of his once impenetrable mind

til his lips foamed green grass,

head bent like dumb cattle.

Enraged, he went and picked

up a skillet teeming with clover

off the kitchen stove and hurled

it to the floor, breaking the plates

and dishes she must have filled

til he arrived at the last item

and sank down, astonished.

Hadn’t she thrown every dark

curl away, buried the rabbit

spoon the neighbor carved,

burned the blue quilt she’d

stayed up late every night

those last months stitching—

all the come before names strung

bright in the tree, sudden ash.

When he found the courage to lift

it to his lips, it began to tremble,

a buzzing rim of wasp, a living rebuke.

Hellbender

she shucked her eyes.

left her tongue. took it off,

set it on a flat granite rock

for ravens to peck/salamanders

to roost as she walked further

and further into the woods,

hands cupped to catch

whatever small speckles

of light managed to filter

all the way down through

the branches, sifted minnows

darting across her thirsty palms.