there are places, and times,
moments at the center of deep circles revolving with the Spirit,
that call up a constant returning, the natural
movement of the soul, entranced and etched.
I am four or five years old, no more,
sitting up in the front, yellow pine boards beneath,
dirt road and loblolly pines without, inside—
white walls, and congregants, pastor, choir,
all black—all but my father, and me, guests,
the old south’s color line not yet a distant memory,
still fresh, and I do not yet know that it is
what I feel at the back of my neck,
but only a tinge. what I remember is
the power of the place, all the faces now, even my father’s,
indistinct in the more than thirty years passed, a generation’s
worth, but the sound and the glory are clear
and present, I am certain that
the roof fairly shook that Sunday morning.
it is shaking still
Tag: Original Poem
Rural Mississippi Settlement Patterns
We like our distance. Angle things a little crooked,
Don’t line up with the neighbors. Show difference.
Scraggling trees, brush piles, dirt road weave,
A junked truck or two, moldering into earthen rust, loose fencing.
Sometimes the dog down the way wanders up and we watch him
Loping along, gaunt, in his eyes a hunted cast, signs of his owner’s
Maladroitness. And we reaffirm our distance, shoo him off.
When God made the world He made it wide with reason, we figure.
We’d prefer to keep it that way. Then, when death calls,
Put us near, but not too near, our ancestors’ bones. Even then
We’ll need our breathing space.
Thicket & Thorp 