Moth

— Candy’s Stop, up Hwy. 52 I been ‘Candy’ since I came here young. My born name keeps but I don’t say. To her who my mama was I was pure millstone, cumbrance.Child ain’t but a towsack full of bane. Well I lit out right quick. Hitched, and so forth.   Legged it. Was rid. Accabee at first (then, thicket-hid) then Wadmalaw; out to Nash’s meat-yard, Obie’s jook.   At County Home they had this jazzhorn drumbeat orphan-band ‘ them lambs ’ they — They let me bide and listen. This gristly man he came he buttered me then took me off (swore I was surely something) let me ride in back. Some thing— (snared) (spat-on) Thing being morelike moresoever what he meant. No I’d never sound what brunts he called me what he done had I a hundred mouths. How his mouth.   Repeats on me down the years.   Everlastingly riveled-looking, like rotfruit.   Wasn’t it runched up like a grub. First chance I inched off (back through bindweed) I was gone. Nothing wrong with gone as a place for living.   Whereby a spore eats air when she has to; where I’ve fairly much clung for peace. Came the day I came here young I mothed my self.   I cleaved apart. A soul can hide like moth on bark. My born name keeps but I don’t say.