Anonymous Emmanuel
postcard, 1911: Laura Nelson and her son,
hanged by a mob from bridge, Oklahoma
All
morning fog
along
the hillside
flinty,
trailed by white
figments: obsession, redemption,
source, our sickness. What god
lights up the sphere in
these
freakish trees?
Christ
breaks from my mouth—
dry
as chalk.
Oh Anonymous Emmanuel,
my gingham dress rusty
with barbed wire—my soul
just
lingering—fluted,
watching
my body swing
so
near me.
Pines, their barbarous spires,
leave shadows creased
in folds—
First
noon, evening, then daybreak—
a
murderous red earth
I
cannot enter
that the men, their jeering
have defiled. Still, the air's
unstill. I'm spun like
a
plum broken open. How
to
reconcile earth with
the
stain, my death,
my breasts still wet
with the sap of milk
for my Sara, my mouth
still
with the unutterable—what
I
did not say, could not
as
they beat and hanged me
was Lord, Lord.
Scent where honeysuckle stifles
white with pink tongues:
laughter
and the rape
of
their picture-taking, how
they
posed alongside me
my neck snapped:
spent. Dark hats
across their hearts.
My
god eats in these
bestial
trees, my soul flees.
Only
when a weeping comes
with my people, boots
thick with red clay, only
when I'm cut free
do
I fly, tunneling
to
earth, to heaven inside
this
soil and source.
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