Crack a whip, crack a buggy on a cracked mud road.
Walk in it, it won’t shrink a boot;
Elsewhere in a rural landscape, never trespass a worm,
They live quietly, like fetuses in a dirt jar,
Then shriek in bellies of robins like arrows.
At their feet in midair, never trespass crows in a bad temper.
The inhabitants of black feathers circle a meal
And suck a breath, then tattle the kill in a grating caw voice of flight
Above the grave, in a play that turned tragic.
Blight wrought like a smithy’s hammer and a shoe in a slack tub.
Rooks croak and a drowned man, wiping his lips on death.
Black, a burden in these parts; their blood runs like dark fruit;
They have too many doors to close, bigotry, hatred, segregation.
Palms calloused from swatting flies on a porch
Waiting for a holy man with a bag full of God.
White folk in a white chapel holding hymnals dreaming of Oedipus,
Before the bed, before the father, fixed in a parenthesis;
Itching for the flesh. A melding of shapes in a warm baptismal.
Blind to what is and what will be. Exit satan.
Eye-bathed in holy water. Navel cords, navel cords, wombs of marble.
Copyright © 09/03/18 lance sheridan®