Tolberton County, 1923

Small god of histories, make yourself known.

Clay-eater, smith and jester, bend the dogwood

down. Tell me who cheated who at cards,

who placed spade next to heart before that ghost,

my great-great uncle, slashed a man’s throat

with his penknife? And walked himself weeping

to the county jail. His nephew sent later

with a flour-sack of cash to bribe the governor

of Sugar Creek. Child of child of pocketknife

and cannon fodder, motoring past sand dunes

far below sea level, I won’t report my crimes.

I do shadow-time, imagining the boy sent

with the bribe made to wait all day on the capitol

steps, face burning from sun and shame.

The murderer my great-great uncle escaped the gallows,

married a poor woman who kept him sane.

The boy ran a cotton mill for fifty years.

As he died he told us his secret story—

saying sure you can purchase mercy sure

you can. But everything you gotta buy costs high.