Doctrine Of Signatures
I carry the fragment
Of a broken heart
To the outskirts of
The Orleans swamp.
There I'm blindfolded.
My guides smell of smoke
And salt marshes.
The thistles slash my legs
And Weeping Willow vines
Slap my face.
It is a long, stumbling trek.
I am unhooded
By a crackling fire
At the river's edge.
Two older women,
One black - one white
Carefully take the heart fragments.
One grasps my right hand
The other takes my left.
We sway back and forth
While they hum in unison.
The fragments are thrown
In the sparking fire.
With the help of the guides,
The women force me into the river.
They release me into the current.
Within minutes, I wash to a sand bank.
I feel the new heart beating.
And have no memories of you.
Sour Mash
The ghost of Robert Johnson
travels from the junction
of US 61 and US 49
with a hellhound at its heels.
Passing the colored hospital
where Bessie Smith lay
bleeding the blues,
it arrives in Clarksdale.
A full Southern summer moon
lights the ‘trail’
but this evening
no “kindhearted woman”
can keep the devil away.
The Hitching
Post
A somber old kudzu morning with
nothing
to recommend its worth beyond
the hazy, wrinkled memory
of some Mississippi corn cob
farmer
who seems to vaguely recollect
that as a boy in his desperate
twenties
(a time when there wasn’t much
else to do
but hitch a wagon and hang on),
it was just such a morning as this
one,
so chilly and front porch gray,
that he met a young southern belle
“down to the general store”
and fell in love.
Now with winter just around the
corner,
he has time to wonder what ever
happened
to that boy and girl.
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