Summer 2014 • Vol. XXXVI No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 2014 |

Lord and Chariot

I say the dead done caught me in a special knot  and lured, and dragged me to the interior. I say his face is strange here, a moment cruel  but not without its silk, its earned sadness. He asks me to touch it, so I touch it.  No light  can blossom here I know, as my bones know.   ▪ ▪ Why ask me who I am. Who really knows  the place of my future? I'm his, or I'm not— I'm black, or black was made me. The light  turns the cane a wanted color. I walk its interior. There are only grasses here, only sadness.  I pick one. I tear it. I think to be free is to be cruel.   ▪ ▪ He says the dead are versions of himself: little ulcers,  little cruel insurgencies. He says, Know that I'm master here, my boy, my little sadness.  There is no riot.  (Riot.) Or fear.  (Fear.) Bought, knotted, I'm the boy in the cane field that's his, the air or  I'm his whip that stirred the air, scarred the light.   ▪ 

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Muguet des Bois

By Mary Ruefle

I say the dead done caught me in a special knot  and lured, and dragged me to the interior. I say his face is strange here, a moment cruel  but […]

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