The devil does my dirty work: I wish you could know and not know. The devil squats
at Fat Mac’s BBQ. The devil suckles beer–can chicken to beer–can
bone. Shot Well Road. Quail Rise Road. Signs say, chicks here, rabbits here, Jesus
is here, and the churches are white and poor. The funnel cloud is a forest
fire. The forest fire is controlled—a blue house on wooden stilts, a bare-armed woman
throwing branches onto more. Tell me this time I’m at nobody’s
mercy. If I dream a snake, my enemy waits behind any door. Love, I killed the snake.
His jowls, they fattened. His hands flapped to old catfish. His words turned
marbles into dung. If I will it, he cannot hurt me anymore. And you, you are a good
man. An open country. A church’s red door. I wish you to bring all my animals
out of hiding: black cows in their green swamp, white geese pecking at carrion,
goats behind trees and their kids spring born—small devils I find on my way back home.