“In the deep peripheral ravines settled by the descendants of local sharecroppers, The Home of the Double-Headed Eagle shoots up from a long row of kudzu-covered shotgun shacks and cracked pavement to entangle passerby.” The Gibraltar of the Confederacy erupts gloriously from the southern tip-edge of the flat Delta flood plain to guard the lush »
“Addressing a jubilant crowd in Belfast, shortly after the declaration of the original ceasefire in 1993, Gerry Adams reminded his audience that ‘they haven’t gone away, you know’. He meant that even as ‘the cause’ was dwindling, its upholders—’the boys’—were still among us. He might just as easily have been talking about the Klan.” You »
“. . . for ten millennia, the bones seemed wreckage from a mighty dream . . .” Big Bone LickAt Big Bone Lick the first explorersfound skeletons of elephants they said,found ribs of wooly mammoths, tusks.They dug out teeth the size of bricksand skulls of giant bison, beavers.
“. . . and now the guitar’s high note sings what he can’t sing it—” You hear him sing itwhen you come to strikethe matchand you catch a noseful of sulfurand the kindling starts to burn—
“. . . there’s Humphrey pumping drugs all out & sundae soda cracker pop . . .” general merchandise the old testament.wares notions sundries dry goods ready to wear candy hats cash & carry HarryTruman making change thanks.
“. . . Earl was a steady liar who never in his life solved a single crime, to hear my father tell it, an improvident soul prone to nocturnal misdemeanors himself . . .” My father was hooked on one brand, Ancient Age,always in pints perhaps to stow snug in the glove boxwith the pearl-handled »
both sweet and bitter, like that afternoon The woman who made ithadn’t been to churchin years, except for thereat the crimped dough edgesand beaten-egg cumulusof the browned meringue,and beneath it, the pudding,both sweet and bitter,like that afternoon,so long ago,just the two of us,talking a little, eating.
“How can a stolen body steal cane? Blazing sun—no sign of rain . . .” Sweetman cuts sugarcaneBlistering sun—no sign of rainStalks tower overheadCutting cane ’til he dead
“for smooth-talking Negro boys from Chicago more equal than separate . . .” They said I had picturesin my wallet, white girlsGisele MacKenzie, Joan Collins.It was immoral for a black boyto tote these Hit Parade darlingsin his hip pocket, going jukingwith their sweet white voices.
“. . . until his finger pads started bleeding again, fresh calluses splitting as he played . . .” Plunking the rusty washtub basswas simple, tautening or relaxing its ropeso that a few thumping notesrose or fell at the floor of a bluegrass tune.
“There are miracles in this world but they are working-class, Wednesday morning miracles . . .” There are miracles in this worldbut they are working-class, Wednesday morning miraclesthat go mostly unnoticed by the priests.
Poetry
Now that the salt of their blood Stiffens the saltier oblivion of the sea . . . —Allen Tate We leave Gulfport at noon; gulls overheadtrailing the boat—streamers, noisy fanfare—all the way to Ship Island. What we seefirst is the fort, its roof of grass, a lee—half reminder of the men who served there—a weathered »