Night, Death, Mississippi

I

A quavering cry. Screech-owl?

Or one of them?

The old man in his reek

and gauntness laughs-

One of them, I bet-

and turns out the kitchen lamp,

limping to the porch to listen

in the windowless night.

Be there with Boy and the rest

if I was well again.

Time was. Time was.

White robes like moonlight

In the sweetgum dark.

Unbucked that one then

and him squealing bloody Jesus

as we cut it off.

Time was. A cry?

A cry all right.

He hawks and spits,

fevered as by groinfire.

Have us a bottle,

Boy and me-

he's earned him a bottle-

when he gets home.

II

Then we beat them, he said,

beat them till our arms was tired

and the big old chains

messy and red.

O Jesus burning on the lily cross

Christ, it was better

than hunting bear

which don't know why

you want him dead.

O night, rawhead and bloodybones night

You kids fetch Paw

some water now so's he

can wash that blood

off him, she said.

O night betrayed by darkness not its own