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Carrion
Cry By: R.T. Smith |
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April summons
a vulture flock to our farm
north of for no
particular reason, unless it’s a
thawed fox in the weeds
by Whistle Creek or some sin we can’t name. Like so many
lost apostles they perch in
the peach trees and preach a
gospel so bleak the ground is fouled slick. The county
agent apologizes: the bastards
are sheltered by federal law. Politicians, buzzards-- no difference to me. There ought to
be a bounty. Hissing worse
than bobcats, they vomit and
shit the yard rancid.
The fice dog flees their roadkill reek, and Delisa won’t open the drapes. “Bad luck,” she
whines and cuddles her kitten. Their heads are featherless to
delve into death and come up refreshed, sleek. Suddenly,
under the moon’s day labors,
one goes heretic and opens his
vast wingspan, then smokes up
to circuit ride till his
brotherhood follows, their spirals
shaping no wild flower
drifting down from but petals of
a rogue-black rose unfolding its
one grim word, a scripture of
shadows spoiling over
the orchard where I stand and gaze. |
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Strange
Fruit, 1939 June and rumor
and Hattie
McDaniel was bustling Mammy on the Loews
Grand screen in downtown the jazzy
anthem of blood on the leaf, blood at the
root, and my
granddaddy loved the gardenia
scent of the torch singer’s voice etched into
the Commodore LP disk with his
bourbon and branch, though he never listened hard to the words. His old Colt
with the misfire hammer was losing
nickel plate in the roll-top desk as he drank to
excess – whiskey the
color of a fox – and kept vigil
– I’m divining this – with the Bible
or his Tuscan fiddle eager for the
midnight phone to ring and shake its cradle. The story is still a puzzle – a
white girl at the Wagon Wheel heard a hot
laugh and an off-key whistle, a spark on spilled gasoline. In the shadow
of the state capitol’s gold dome,
Miss McDaniel’s face was a dark moon sweating. “ she said, “you behave.” Any chance of a pastoral
died as the edge of a gardenia corsage wilted
and the men’s club met to cast their unholy votes. Sisal rope
coiled like a snake in a Chevrolet’s boot. An evil orchard, strange fruit.
“Sepien songstress” a pundit called was a shivered cymbal. The crowd at the Roxy was filing out, still shocked
by “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a
damn.” What dust
skirled on the road to What
brotherhood dispersed in the fog of dawn? The peaches were bleeding,
cigar ash smoldered and
the savage sun rose over Up an octave,
skid to a whisper, a grim
tremolo, then insinuation, ghost lament, pianissimo, a bitter crop. That’s the way
to croon it. A summer
fever. Your neck hair will stiffen
like hackles, and what can I
do but sip my tepid Coke and try to say
No with every word or silence I
dare to remember, write this
family testament soft as a
moth, black ink gliding across – and I will
save myself if I can – the white bond
stationery’s bone-cold
killing field |
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