White Curtain

I.
Seven-halfs of a full turnaround
from seeing that someone was
at her door, my grandmother
fled from her kitchen. Three men
weren't enough to take her
on July eighteenth, nineteen-
eighty-three. Five might
have been, but they would still
have been so surprised by
her attempts towards hospitality
that shock would bid them sit
and stay awhile for a supper
of ham, collard greens,
and banana pudding.

II.
William meets with his herd, daily.
Today is no different. A gray
sky meets modest brush at the
edge of the wood. The fields
don't sing, really, they just
murmur some quiet hymn to the
dung that keeps them green.
Flies swerve to avoid erratic
tails and William's herd feeds.

III.
Quiet congregation, black-suited
Reverend delivers his sermon
on "How to love the Lord."
Closing hymn in red binding:
"Rock of Ages, Cleft for Me."
A five-year old, home that
afternoon, considers justice
and does her best to meet
the preacher's suggestion.

Waylaid

Desert, night,
Eleven and I hadn't eaten
since one. Tarantula
a few inches from my shoe.
I wouldn't flinch
for fear of waking him,
should he be asleep.
So many eyes
and a wave motion
to slow appendages.

"I need to ask you a question,
before we start," said a new voice.
Old man, paler than the climate could
bear, ambled up. "No, nothing serious."

"Fine."

"If you're going to leave,
why'd you come all the way
out here before?"

"Had to." "Yeah?"

"Yeah, can't go 'til
you say so anyway. You
gonna write a letter or
something? I don't
think so."

"Fair enough."