Cross Garden

Glare ice on the asphalt north of Prattville

kept the back road deadly where acres

of whitewashed crosses shaped Reverend Rice's

holy ground. Upstairs the stars were waking,

and a car taking this curve would need wings

to keep from losing the earth if a foot

touched the brake. It was pine slopes and red

clay the self-made preacher laced with Christmas

lights and splashed with scripture. It was his

nightmare not even Bosch or Jimmy Swaggart's

TV scare team could have dreamed up: scarlet

Barbies dangled from a gibbet painted

dead from sex, a Kenmore refrigerator

read NO ICEWATER IN GEHENNA.

Ab Rice was beet-faced, carrot-haired, always

angry on call-in radio. "You're all

evil," he'd say, "Jesus will reap. He will

fall on you like a storm." Bobby Sims

was drinking Rebel Yell from the bottle,

listening to rockabilly, as usual,

when he took wing and lost it, his Maverick

slashing sideways through makeshift altars.

Sparks flew, till the death car bucked the ditch

and slammed into a crosstie crucifix.

Blood sprayed. The county rescue crew had to

cut him out. Chavelle Wilson said she heard

Rice raving at the volunteers, "Heathens

make these cars. Detroit Yankees, Jews and Darks.

They bear the mark of Satan." Blue bathrobe

his Bible like a weapon and didn't

pray a note for the boy from the paper

mill who lay split open on the snow.

He was old-time hard-shell, a foot washer

from Eufaula who clerked at the feed

and seed till his Edna died. He'd haul a red

Stratocaster he couldn't quite play to Sunday

service till they cast him out. He quit work

for apostleship, gimcrack carpentry

and raising shrines: castoff ovens filled

with plastic soldiers- the soul wars in hell.

A lawn lackey was wrapped in chains- Cain sinned.

Years after Bobby brought fire across the ice

and died, his friends kept heaping wildflowers

on the site. Around the nest of dead stalks

the Reverend raised a fence of pitchforks.

The sign read, Behold the lilies. He built a pulpit.

You'd see him out there, fierce but feeble,

telling some local zealot where to raise

the next exhibit. Rumor had it Praise

the Lord got wind of his ministry and sent

mission money, but it wasn't enough.

The garden fell to ruin and was auctioned

for back taxes. Now they say he cruises

the Food Lion parking lot for converts, his hair

just a rusty wisp, sharp jaw unshaven.

His blue eyes are ice set deep in fire.

He'll single out some unwary shopper

and grip the Maverick steering wheel

he wears slung on a guitar strap. He'll sing,

"Follow along the Holy Ghost parade," or,

"Hallelujah by and by, Ill fly away."

Rumor has it he's got a cache of tithes

squirreled away in a Sanka can. Biding

his time, he's nursing a surplus Xerox,

planning out a series of rabid tracts

he's worked up for the local apocalypse.

He's raring to bring Sweet Jesus back

from the cross garden to tend his flock.

He swears he's been named one of the Elect,

in frost and fire, Born Again again.

BRIGHTWOOD

The saw blade will go slowly

into the limb's center where sap

has ambered the timber, whether

it be holly, fir or cedar, and maple's

grain is a good gift filled with light

and the patience of a bird-knit

forest. Clasp knife and chisel

will shape the waist, bridge, neck

and stern. A good cut-sliver

by sliver-finds an owl's eye

in the texture. You rasp and sand

for the curve of muscle, the feel

of bone. Smoke and varnish

for the whiskey sheen. When

it's dry and strung, tune it to the wind