Stocking cap spelling death
on concrete cloaked
in November leaves,
Body bread broken
by the whisper of morning’s sour wine
and the undying
wail
of the little one
hungry
for the jar of Gerber’s strained plums,
--her favorite—
forgotten at Mel’s when Back Ho
plugged the jukebox with
the song that wouldn’t drown.
A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.
Unforgiven,
he fell
in the door to the Fellowship Hall,
reached for your hand
and took mine.
And now,
as the hard rush
of the metal angel’s wings—
lifts me above stormy water,
I sip sauvignon,
listen to the wafer
knitting questions
in my unforgiven bone
and open myself to the lover
who whispers the grace notes
of our names,
waiting for us to come.
Craig Werner
Craig teaches African-American literature and music at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, and is a friend of St. Joseph's.
