The Saved

From cutting the nuts out of a bull calf's bag with a Barlow,

from laying case knives on a dress pattern,

from running a trotline and baiting the hooks with gone liver,

from mashing a tobacco worm into a green blot,

from crimping dough at the piecrust edge,

from whisking an egg,

from whipping a boy with a switch he fetched,

from doffing a bolt of taffeta,

from working the one arm of the adding machine,

from beating the answers out of the erasers

Oh Lamb of God, they come.

If you

would be

born again,

if you

would purge

your sin

in the scalding

blood, the blood

shed for you,

if you

would accept

the death

into the water

and the life

rising out,

come.

He cried out

and asked

his father

why he was

forsaken.

I want you

fathers and

you mothers

to think

on that,

your only child,

nails tearing

his hands,

those hands

you held.

Spikes driven

into those feet

you washed

and kissed

when they

were dry,

think on

this gift

you fathers

and mothers.

Mud randy as a ripe corpse.

River thick brown, a liquid road, going on its own dirt and taking its path as it goes.

A canopy of green, a living, breathing roof and the light through it green.

Mockingbirds splash. Amble of the opossum. Cardinal a red thread run

     through the green warp.

Moccasin a muscle brown and blunt.

Frog all fart, all ja-rump, all slap and not a bad meal if you have a mess.

Carp nudge a drowned cow and sup.

The green buzz and crawl of it all.

Take His hand.

Come down

this aisle

tonight. Name

Jesus as your

Lord and

Savior.

Hold those

bleeding hands.

He died

that you

might live,

that you

might not

know the Devil's

breath on

your neck,

a breath

like sour milk.

He feeds

on flesh,

the maggoty

flesh of

this world.

He died

that you

would not

feel the Devil's

claws in

your soft skin,

those claws

crusted and brown

with old blood.

I'm holding

the Devil off

right now,

but Old Scratch

wants you.

He wants

you to stay

in your pew.

He wants you

to think about

a new car,

that TV show,

that baseball glove,

that Barbie.

Are you thinking

about them?

If you are,

the Devil's grinning.

Poplar and gum. Some oak and maple. Sassafras and dogwood in the

     understory.

Blackberry bramble white in May with blooms that by July will be fat drops

     of sweet ink.

Whippoorwills address the evening in our tongue.

And bobwhites the day. Crows laugh. Terrapins hiss. Squirrels bark and dogs bark and the groundhog whistles a tune, a tune from roots, a tune fed by timothy and purple clover, a tune from fur and yellow ever-growing teeth, a tune from sturdy little hands and their dirt-polished claws, a tune most local, a sinful tune if this world is sin.

Don't you

see him

grinning?

Don't you

see his sharp

yellow teeth?

Don't you

hear him whistle

that little tune

for dancing

in the sulfurous fires?

Don't you

hear that tune,

that beautiful

little tune,

he whistles

just for you?