REBECCA BLACK
Tolberton County, 1923
Small god of histories, make yourself known.
Clay-eater, smith and jester, bend the dogwood
down. Tell me who cheated who at cards,
who placed spade next to heart before that ghost,
my great-great uncle, slashed a man’s throat
with his penknife? And walked himself weeping
to the county jail. His nephew sent later
with a flour-sack of cash to bribe the governor
of Sugar Creek. Child of child of pocketknife
and cannon fodder, motoring past sand dunes
far below sea level, I won’t report my crimes.
I do shadow-time, imagining the boy sent
with the bribe made to wait all day on the capitol
steps, face burning from sun and shame.
The murderer my great-great uncle escaped the gallows,
married a poor woman who kept him sane.
The boy ran a cotton mill for fifty years.
As he died he told us his secret story—
saying sure you can purchase mercy sure
you can. But everything you gotta buy costs high. ![](../../images/bug_print.gif)
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