Robert Hayden(1913–1980)
Night, Death, Mississippi
A quavering cry. Screech-owl
Or one of them
The old m a n in his reek
and gauntness laughs—
O n e of them, I bet—
and turns out the kitchen lamp,
limping to the porch to listen
in the windowless night.
Be there with Boy and the rest
if I was well again.
Time was. Time was.
White robes like moonlight
In the sweetgum 3 dark.
Unbucked that one then
and him squealing bloody Jesus
as we cut it off.
Time was. A cry
A cry all right.
He hawks and spits,
fevered as by groinfire.
Have us a bottle,
Boy and me—
he's earned him a bottle—
when he gets home.
II
Then we beat them, he said,
beat them till our arms was tired
and the big old chains
messy and red.
O Jesus burning on the lily cross
Christ, it was better
than hunting bear
which don't know why
you want him dead.
O night, rawhead and bloodyhones night
You kids fetch Paw
some water now so's he
can wash that blood
off him, she said.
O night betrayed by darkness not its own