Text

at the beginning
dust overswept the
fields and left them
dull and brown and dry.
sometimes i feel i
am in one of those
old jalopies, hunger
gnawing it's way up
my throat into the
ditch of my mouth.

i fought through
the dirt to go west
where the walls
are a white so
bright that when
i twitch my hand
to turn on the lights
the little lines in
my flesh glow.
picket lines do
not glow but these
lines do.

the flyers were filled
with pictures of oranges
that dripped off trees
into the waiting hands
of men and children,
the women were waiting
for a meal to piece together
like a quilt. the trees
in the backyard bear rotten
fruit, my womb bears blood,
and every day i feel for
the next ledge to place
my tired feet on.

they put a pick into the
face of jesus christ himself
and his brothers called
for him. i turned my back
to him and went south
like the coward i was.
i didn't stay to watch his
blood stain the dirt black
or to see the vengeance
that would come.
i had my own vengeance
and the vengeance of my
brothers.

at the end
dust overswept me
and left me
dull and brown and dry.
the pick in my hand felt
like an extra limb.
i put it to his sleeping
face and my hand fluttered
up,
there was a grunt,
and then a sigh.

the piece of my soul i lent
to him and he had swallowed
it whole,

grinning all the while.