When I finally find
myself in the dirt
say
some 52 years from now
give my lampshades
and frail autographs
to my lady
with her married scorn
and scarred hands
that have held my own.

Only in death
will I see her clearly
as the day I met her
and
in our plantation house
you can find a tin cup
a stray look and
her sentiments
I never overlooked
quite carefully put.

Her ancient beauty
quite unnerving
and her eyes
ever fearful of my demise.

In my crystal clear
version of the way things were
you'll see her letters
that I have kept
still breathing hard
and holding fast
against my chest.

For
I have never loved another
quite like her
sharp teeth and red lipstick
on my dress
and
when we were married
the whole town came to see
what true love could
really mean
to us:
as thieves
as unbelievers
in all things.

Constant sorrow will follow
America
but not her
immortal and etched
into every doorway
of the south
and inside of my body
breathing out.

So much for I have lived
to succumb
to become the dirt
she dances on
to watch for her
in every crowd
spell her name on my tongue
breathing loud
and fast inside of her love
and her blouse
that stands forever
inside of our plantation house.