I am calling on my crazy Celtic cousins in Kentucky,
Whose hair, like falling leaves and floating embers
Echoes the same fleeing passage of my
Mother’s forgotten family,
Across relentless raging oceans on perfect promises of peace
In ships that stank of sea sickness and dank, decomposing carcasses.
I am calling on Corn Mother
Who with strong Southern winds
And a stifling Summer Sun
Can cultivate the sweetest scented starch
To sustain her savage sons when the hunt has gone cold
And the rain only brings them sorrow.
I am listening to the tying of knots
As the monks print them on pages of a Holy book,
And the unraveling of the ropes that were used
To tie the fates of the unfaithful
As leashes around their narrow necks.
I can hear the auctioneers
Selling the Sowers of the slave masters’ seed
And smell the price of a cotton picker’s plump, pregnant wife
As she’s pulled off of the bargain block
And tied to a barrel of barley brew
In the back of a red wheeled rotting wagon.
I will dance a ring around the fiercest fall fire for you, your family,
And for me.
I will dance another ring for the
Scalps of the wicked,
The wayward warriors’ weapons,
And the roots of this tremendously tall but tired tree.