In church

we said Satan, get thee behind

and I always laughed. A demon child

with a twisted mouth,

at supper time I refused meat

to suck on bones. In the alley

behind the house what grew besides

berries I was told not to touch? I licked

the blood at the root. A bitter crop,

I came screaming—never tell me

to be quiet again. I know what life

the wind sucks, but what hits harder

than a hungry hand scorn by

a gallant South? I want it to try me.

Trust me, you’ve never felt a mouth

this sweet. This thorny. They said,

Somebody put sugar in his tank,

I thought myself an army.

Commander, when I tell you to

fuck me, I don’t mean

for your tree to drop in a spirit-filled

chamber of burning flesh.

I mean grow a thicker root. I mean

to say: crow, pluck me. Too much

sweetness can kill you and this

plantation can never be too used.

In the end I will have you

hung up, trapped in my Southern breeze.