Dominique Christina

This song is not a language, Not a thing to be remembered, The field-holler tradition of Teeth and knees Cursing wind, A concert hall of   bloody hands Spilling the earth, Strangling dirt, Sledgehammer curses Of  men busted open. On Parchman Farm You could hear it coming Up through the trees, The hammering pulpit of Crooning men and sweat, The tender meat of palms Pulped like plums. Them men gulped down the Dawn dew air, Let it catch in their throats, Broke the sunrise up and Sang hymns like hexes: Be my woman gal, I’ll beeee your maaaaaaan... And the killing fields of  Mississippi Fizzled down to juke joints and The hothouse music of illegal clubs With thick women they loved outright and Played cards with and Gave bourbon to when their hands Didn’t hold sorrow like Pickaxes and the railroad was Just a railroad, A way to ride north if  you could Get your money right. Redbone gals with rosewater sweat, When they lifted their knees Sunflower County was a heaven They believed in. Stick to the promise, gal, that you maaaaaade meeeeee... Steady now, They turned back the clock on Their hard, hard hands, Let the memory of fresh linen and Ladies’ slips like gossamer Wings, a parade of  plump thighs, The juju thrust of  furious bones Spread like grease Across starched-white sheets, Midwife them out of ol’ Parchman Farm And back to the cockfights and gambling, Back when they had ambition, Back when they had a sweet woman To hold, her fat wrists Soft as butter, Limp as rain. When she walk, she reel and rock beeeeeehind Ain’t that enough to make a convict smiiiiiiiiile.