~a jump-rope chant~

Black silk handkerchief,
what ya’ gonna’ hide?
A pox that knocks on the church’s side.
Preacher won’t preach where my daddy died.
Angel forgot which soul to guide.

Both arms wrapped in moccasin skin,
open the gate and let her in!
Snake-bone hag with watery eyes,
count to ten when the baby cries.

One for the moon,
and two for sin,
three for the teeth with the rusted grin.
Four for the girl with the copper cough,
dancin' in the attic with the light turned off.

Five, six,
skillet ticks.
Seven, eight,
shut the gate!
Nine, ten, count again—
bathe him slow and cool the skin.

held him close till the fever broke;
air curled white from pinewood smoke.
Chewed the haw and bit the sage,
wrapped his bottle in a bible page.

Ghost stood watch on the porch out back,
shadow thin and eyes coal-black.
Sayin', I’m fine, don’t mind the cold,
died last spring but ain’t been told.

Purple
The sunlight pierces.
In the corner of my eye
is a shape.

Memory
River of my remembering.
The fishes who eat themselves,
are slaves to the current.

chains between my ankles
jangle louder
as I inch towards the comfort
of a familiar tree

Under its shade,
where I buried Yesterday
along with the sins and joys of youth,
Moss has spread

She can not understand
how much a heart can desire
something it never had.
Those little hands and little toes
soft coos and a tiny, button-nose.
Wrapped in white, an angel sleeping,
peaceful and drowsy,
with all the angels waiting.
With hands that don't know how to stay
and cries are all to communicate,
a darling angel grows and cleaves,
relying on one for all she needs.
And wherever in Heaven she may be,
your lonely mother waits for thee.

Is this what writers do?
Conjure the worst then set you there, contorting
to listen for the beauty that sings in suffering?
Your boiling body fights, trembling
and next to you in darkness, brooding
I see the struggling and the worst
and imagine  your beauty

as a memory that enters a room
full of mourners-
sunlit breeze captured
in billowing fabric
which turning and holding
there for a moment
lets you go
as the tears and the chatter
go on

Jan 2021

They came to me in
a febrile dream.
Whispered screams and
malformed limbs.
They wanted to drag
me to the hell they
came from, but I fought,
and got well.

when I tell my mom I feel sick
the first thing she does
is kiss my forehead to see if I have a fever
and
I just feel like
there's a metaphor there somewhere