The Stigmata Rather than a Punch on the Nose
If you'd asked my father when he was nine
he would have beat you up too. Not because
but because he couldn't understand the difference
It had nothing to do with being a bonnet-headed
of the one word he knew better
Imagine: 1952, summer, an over-ripe pear
and his nose and no sheep in sight
for the wretched in Maysville, N.C.
on the sorrel's dewed back, early morning,
and the sorrel wading into the horizon,
in a movie and as always would become a spectator
that the other boys (Marion and Steamboat and the
forget about it. They kept coming,
Their fascination with seeing blood pour from a nose,
but the reconstruction of it.
a yellowed calm breaking over the leaves
This was not dusk or locust though.
brings to a place, carrying a kerosene lantern
of a grain silo, too afraid to climb down in the dark.
as he would light up one boy after another
for the blood of his good name.
It was a simple mistake to make,
with a stain on a boy's palm, the sow in her trough
or rather a light luminous enough to see
one last time? The sick sow he fed mornings,
speaking his own name as a question to her. Poteat?
later, after our good-byes and our kind sirs
the deepest well of it, the sow that rubbed
Calm yourself. Give in.
a muslin of rain delivering the ancient scent
Born in a field at the edge of a ditch he would
The formality of a swallow's nest falling
or sadden him, he just didn't want it anymore:
washed up on the river's bank,
The stupid pig lying there. Fuck you. Fuck you.