Magnets of Faith and Knowing

If my mind truly is broke at least
I’m the only one holding the pieces.
That’s a rare claim around here, owning
something outright. My own people
never seen it for real so all they can do
now is walk around the fact of me like
a pack a’ wild dogs barking at a boxed-up
turtle not knowing whether to shout or
go blind in the terrible newness of it all.
Pardon the truth but those pieces are
mine and not one a’ Them’s allowed
near. Might get cut and they know it.
Had their chance to play is what I’m
humming as I sling those pieces like
razor dominoes. Used to I would’a
been extra careful, about Them first
of course, but the world is surely
changed. If it hadn’t changed I’d have
to laugh outright watching ‘em suffer
in their confusion. But it has changed
so I don’t. I work my pieces. On a good
day it’s like suddenly being able to play
that fifty-cent piano lesson half-learnt
in the neighbor’s house and finally getting
it right. The curtains open up like a big red
flower and everybody claps and there you are
but it’s your own house and everybody’s clean
and no one’s shaming your hands that can barely
rise above the keys as you stare at the dimes
stacked level with your nose knowing that’s
either food for eight or a whipping earned for
not learning and you can’t even breathe
so how could you possibly play?

Now it’s fifty times right for every time
wrong is what should finally balance me
I reckon but there’s always the starting
over at the first sour note and some days
I do get stuck, some off-key piece won’t
play no matter how hard I pound it. Can’t
help them days. Other times I’m halfway
home before the bell rings, playing loud
as I want, loud as I can. Then soft, softer
than my hands could ever dream, softer
than the teacher’s dress I ached to lean
against. So soft she has to close her eyes
to catch it and it’s so pretty and soft she
forgets to slide the dimes into her pocket.
Considers herself paid in pretty. It’s funny
what you do come up with, though, just
playing. Right pretty designs sometimes.
Other times it’s downright awful stuff
that makes you scatter them pieces quick,
look out the window and swear off your
grief-grubbing forever. But it’s just broken
pieces of memory glass on a fat lady’s lap,
ain’t nothing special going on. Throw ‘em
in the air if I want to, catch ‘em if I care.
Don’t matter. They always come back.
Can’t help it. They are mine.

…..

The changing started for a fact with
Verdell, Jr. soon as I was got settled.
Not two minutes after the funeral,
the house crawling with people
I ain’t seen in years and that child
is out there racing back and forth
on the ride-around mower his daddy
scrap-built. Now there’s a proud one
I thought as I watched him through
my side-window. Staring straight
ahead and grinning like a blessed
fool he revved it for the hill, roared
it under my window and then spun
it in circles around the only stick-tree
in that burned-out yard. Now who in
their right mind would go and mow
the yard two minutes after burying
a sister? And still in their church clothes!
Probably hoping for a quarter that one.
Give ‘em all fifty cents to go away for good
I swore as I looked around at what Death’s
home cooking had brought to my door.
Oh you stupid grass I sighed, the nerve
to grow where nothing else grows. Stupid
child I moaned so the Devil wouldn’t hear,
making me to smell the wicked cut of life
when I’m striving for emptiness. Stupid
me for dropping his daddy when I had
said no more after six. Stupid how it goes
on and on and when does it end? When
can one of us count to more than twenty
and not feel like a genius was what
I wanted to know.

I was squeezing my armrests
and rocking fast as I could when
that junked-up machine runs over
the hose pipe and explodes right under
my window. And the cat… Good God!
Attacks the walls! The ceiling! People
are throwing plates of food in the air
and screaming like a bomb gone off.
Then the beast drops on me and I’m
caught, done for, pushed over the edge
by stupidity, animals, and di—rect pain.
An ungodly howl shot out of me as I flung
that monster off my neck and moved myself
to the washroom—for I was always parked
a straight shot in front of it. Hadn’t been
alone on my feet for over thirteen years
and there I was, walking, if you could
call it that. More like should’a dropped
like the bloated sack of fat I was but
the crazy rage of a death gone wrong
had me by the neck and wouldn’t let go.
Slamming the door behind me I grabbed
a’hold the sink with one hand and clawed
through the remedy cabinet with the other,
looking for ear cotton, and Lord the relief
once I twisted it in. But it weren’t enough
for my troubles and lately trouble’d been
hitting faster than I could rock, what with
Wayne in prison, Aileen fresh buried today,
Lucy long gone and now Henry starting
up wheezing. Feeling my legs about to
give out I cried “Mercy!” and at that
very moment found me some petro-jelly
to swab that cotton to better seal up my
ears. “Thank you Jesus” I whispered as
I caught my side rails just in time. Then,
by releasing my fingers like the airbrakes
on Henry’s truck when he’s holding a hill—
inch at a time, inch at a time—I hiked up
my skirts, lowered myself directly onto
the commode and made use of it. Of all
the prideful things I cannot afford
a wasted trip to the washroom
surely tops the list.

That’s when I saw the penny.

Stuck half-under the baseboard it flared
my penny hunger right up. Bent over
and shot my arm out but didn’t come
close so I worked on it with my foot,
only managing to shove it in tighter.
Damn, I thought, if ever there was
a time to get me a penny this was it,
for the feel of a found wheatie always
calmed me good. Now pennies are
familiar but for those surrounded by
filth and nonsense a penny shines bright.
Bright and quiet. Waiting to be found
or not. Don’t care just is, like I never
was allowed, always spun and plowed
and Queen-Bee’d to death by Them.
That’s why I wanted It. A nickel one
of the babies would gobble up quick
as a goose. Dime? Quarter? Grown
men gone crazy fighting like birds
over a snippet of string. But a penny
lies flat and brown. Takes dirt on its
face. Takes feet. Takes it all and never
speaks up. Guess ol’ Abe done bit his
tongue so many times he just give up
on talking. But I heard him right fine
and the fact I could not have him
damn near killed me.

Toeing the penny’s edge as I stared
at the broke mirror glued to the wall
I licked my fingers and wiped the claw
marks off my neck. Then folks started
tapping the door, asking politely Was
I okay. Knew they only wanted to use
the facilities but also knew if I could
hear that I still weren’t safe. My eyes
started flinching around all panicky.
Finally lit on a pair of Henry’s shootin’
plugs where the soap should’a been.
That nasty habit of his might have
paid off for me I thought as I pulled
up, leaned forward and caught myself
on the poor old sink near ready to pop
off the wall from its years of double duty.
Doused them plugs with pr’oxide right
where they was and watched the filth
boil out as I counted my seconds. Then,
by switching hands real quick as I straight-
armed the sink—thump, thump—I worked
the plugs in, squeezed back on the crapper
and studied the ceiling cracks as the world
slowly faded to blessed peace. The real
deal these, I thought, flicking my
fingers and hearing nothing.

Can’t be nothing better.

Pushing the plugs in deeper
I shuddered as a tickle shot down
my spine. Then for reasons I’ll never
know I started thinking about old times—
or old times started thinking about me—
until out of nowhere I caught a vision
of us all gone to the grocery, me shuffling
the aisle with my fake vinyl pocketbook
weighed down with whispering Abes.
Only this time I knew why people was
staring at us. Sitting in that little privy
squeezed between two lino’ walls with
the pattern rubbed slick off both sides
again, knowing the floor might cave
at any second but too tired to care,
I also knew what they was thinking.
How could he? Why would she? But
fat stupid me, I had held my head
high, thinking this that or the other
child you’re staring at in disbelief just
might be the great, great…many greats…
grandfather of the final fat-ass redneck
child and that child might someday put
his stupid lucky hands on the pretty wheel,
spin it just right and win the million-dollar
prize for all mankind—saving us from all
horrible death somehow in the bargain.
Such was my dream. But in the meantime,
and knowing our blood was bad, I dropped
child after child into the litter box of life.
“There a whore, here a thief, there an idiot.
Don’t know what that one’ll be but go ‘head
on Mr. Devil, take your pick. Take ‘em all
I guess. There’s always more. We’re a lucky
family” I muttered as I shook my head at
my old self. Lucky that outright retardation
hadn’t struck us down in holy vengeance is
more like it for them Bible stories had nothing
on that old house. By the age of seven I had
seen and heard the coming and the going
and even guessed out the truly hidden as
well. Weren’t pretty then and there’ll be no
telling of it now. What’s done in the barn
stays in the barn is all I’m saying.

Shameful lot all.

But they can’t disappoint you I realized
with a guilty sigh. You knew what you
was making no matter what your dream.
One a’ Them wasn’t gonna pop right out
waving no fat daddy-check and taking
ya’ll to some fancy Florida you most
certainly must have known that. Must
be life itself that needs ‘em to fill some
dark hole or such so the good folks don’t
have to touch dark, can just walk on by
and not even guess at what’s looking up
at ‘em. But I don’t need to hide from dark.
I have touched it plenty. Shivering hard
to shake loose any old memory grip that
even thought of climbing out I eased on
back into the silence. Like seeks like sure
as man is born to trouble it came to me
at the top of a yawn. Never seen a dog
hopping a turkey I added and almost
smiled, feeling a bit of the blame escape
my shoulders. So we find each other, it
can’t be helped, and are generally safer
for the finding, I saw, nodding my head
with the mercy you allow yourself when
times are hard. And generally’s fairly good,
considering. Reaching for the healing plant
I kept on the floor—my old touch-comfort—
I slid my fingers up each long neck, wiping
the many mouths. The better to breathe,
my darling, the better to sing, for you,
my sweet, are the last living thing
I dare to touch with love.

Then I snapped a neck and did my cuts.

But as the smugness of my satisfaction
wrapped around my mind I tripped over
the ugliness of that word, smug, and knew
it for the sin it was. For suddenly I saw my
people like I was having an early-morning
dream in color—an endless swarm of pig
creatures crawling through the mud between
the factory and the kitchen, the used-parts
stores and the Nearly New, picking up what
trash and government cheese they could find
to patch their lives together until it all became
the ever-lasting dreadful day and how one silly
pig trying to escape the pig-sand was stomped
flat by the mindless marching feet of the others
and buried for good. I turned to the mirror to
blot that horrible image but when I saw my
own squat eyes half-buried under sweaty
layers of fat I understood the personal truth
of my vision and how it came to be. How
one day between pushing the wolf’s nose
out the window with one hand and putting
the big pot in the little pot with the other,
somehow managing to light a fire under
it all and even give it a stir now and then—
how one day between baby-this and
baby-that and God a’mercy kick the dog
out the kitchen with one foot and rattle
the stove with the other—how on one
thoroughly average day your whole life
takes the final hit that topples everything
and nothing because it’s your whole life
being flipped and way over in the corner
where no one ever looks or cleans the little
trick-peg slips down the little trick-hole
and before you know it you’re tail-nailed
and going in circles, still wanting better
but not able to touch it, barely even think it.
Certainly not make it. For me it was bearing
the nightly burden of lil’ Henry Pratt climbing
Mount Lurleen for thirty-seven years—sliding,
crawling, desperate to get settled somewhere—
as I lay there sorting laundry in my mind,
figuring bills, listening to the already kids
screaming for dinner and yes, finally, I was
done. A mind like mine must have comfort
I decided at that moment, for look at
where suffering has landed me.

…..

‘Used to be alive.’

Nearly jumped my skin when I heard
that—though it was felt more than heard
which made it worse for it had a touch I
did not care for, like a dried-up snake had
uncurled itself in whatever warmth I was
making with my visions and slipped its way
through the grey at my feet to rub against
my legs as I sat disappearing in the quiet
so deep I wasn’t sure I could feel my own
fingers. Touched my mouth—still closed—
surprised at the hurtful sadness that shot
through me after the shock of the words
wore off. ‘All of you, Lurleen,’ the voice
whispered like an ugly gossip, lifting my
chin, forcing me to listen. I shook free,
grabbed my rails and fought to see around
the stall half-expecting one a’ Them to be
standing there grinning and pointing me
out to the Devil. “Well if I did I got nothing
to show for it!” I hollered waving my hands
in front of me trying to break up the cloud
of memories the voice was riding on. ‘You
had powerful thoughts about better, Lurleen.
Kept your mind above the roof and rent,’
the voice continued like the smoothest rumor.
‘Had powerful suffering and took it straight.
Never ran from, never ran to, but stood in
the presence and received your blessing.
You were planted deep, Lurleen…’

Rocked to a sleepy peace by the hearing
of my name—by the fact that someone or
something was actually talking to me—I side-
stepped the voice on some skinny bridge
and walked straight into the land of Then
where I saw us before the true troubles
had struck—cried out and tried to run
forward but something cut, I tell you,
and I could not go there. Lowering
face to hands in a belly-wash of grief
striving for the dullness my ears had
found I squeezed my eyes but brilliant
flashes of the old times splashed across
the black like some chopped-up movie
spooling double-fast—ghostly children
racing through the house and squawks
of wild laughter all walled up with piano
tinklings and tears in the hidden scream
of slamming doors and animals birthed,
bleeding into the eternity of kids slapped
and tumbling ‘til crazed with laughter
toppling onto the grass like shaking
candy at the sky—but also one far cat
moaning low, mouth near ground as
small hands shaped the air above
the rough dirt mound of one rag doll
and one rag dress buried at sunset in
memory of the unspoken bundle under
the midnight rocks and later, clothes
snapping on the line and a bigger me
on my knees with both hands deep in
the summer garden focused and solid
and true. And food! Huge plates of food
of my own making! “I did, I surely did.
I remember! What happened, Lord?
Where did it go?” I moaned, no longer
wanting to stop what was happening for
there was a powerful sweetness to the pain.
‘And the whole house sang and you called
the tune until all your plans and hard work
were slowly pushed into the muddy river
of stupidity by Them, Lurleen, that constant
hair on the tongue of your grace that you
will never fully spit out, Lurleen, never.’
Finished, the voice stood back and faded
like the man I had seen walking under
the last streetlight on his way out of town
as Daddy and us older kids drove past from
seeing Mama off at the hospital. Never forgot
that empty stricken face staring straight into
the night and how I wanted so badly to reach
out and touch him that I had to sit on my
hands—and the sudden uncontrollable
hunger that flooded my mind.

“So I sat and sat and grew fat,” I whispered
through my fingers, “and wanted no more
bad to happen. To me.” Feeling the presence
of squalid damnation as the walls squeezed
tighter the floor jerked hard and the bulb
rattled and flashed above my head I kicked
my feet and struggled to rise but was filled
with a fire that brought my head up quick.
“I said it!” I cried out. “I done confessed my
sin! Ain’t that what you tell us to do, Lord?
Can’t help if it’s the Devil got me first!”
I shouted, searching the air above me for
some twist or thickening of mercy. “Couldn’t
stand to be alive like that no more! I know
I done turned rotten inside but it’s better
this way! Lucy’s gone, dammit! Aileen just,
the whole world knows Wayne’s in prison
and what for and now Henry’s sinkin’ quick.
Ain’t no cotton for that, Lord!” I wailed like
a fire-touching baby as the demons of shame
and history slowly fled my heaving body.
After a time I dried my tears, shanked my
hair down over my plugs and moved myself
back out amongst Them. From the way they
stopped chewing and stared you’d think
they was watching Lazarus jitter-bugging
with a monkey. I wouldn’t know, though
I felt a lightness such as I never felt before.
They all fell back like chaff in the wind as I
walked straight up to my special-made chair
to begin my new life. Ain’t heard nor spoke
a word since. If that’s a broke mind so be it.
Broke mind don’t mean but one thing to me—
blessed peace as the world slips through,
tasting like Eternity. Tasting good.

…..

The others come around on special days,
tongues pushing dark air back and forth
above the endless parade of mouthing,
red-faced babies. I hold the creatures,
when offered, smell the fresh-cut ginger
of their bodies, run my hands over their
butter-smooth skin and pretend to smile
but secretly I’m feeling for the source of
the curse—be it heat or lump—so I can
learn it with my hands and squeeze it out,
this ongoingness of stupidity—lift ‘em
‘til we’re touching noses and wait for
their eyes to open wide. Then I go inside
and pray for the barren womb, the twisted
and meager seed—and don’t come out ‘till
their breath blows cold. When they’ve all
gone to bed I sneak with my eyes. Down
the hallway, there, under the flower table,
a little brown floor-face shining up. I’ll wait
hours if need be then heave up and push off.
Quick-like. Another to hide, to slide in. No
telling where. Like seeks like in the dark.
Makes like in the dark. Magnets of faith
and knowing they are, these seven penny-
years I’ve rocked and don’t you tell me
it’s time to start counting. Don’t you
tell me nothing. They are mine.