a preacher. Baptist. he holds
the Book (closed cover) his hands
formed in rage and patience, a mixed sensitivity
in the hands
the long fingers tell their
refinement
the face is not that of a brutal man
he rode his horse, leaving the low trees
sitting straight in the saddle,
not in flight . . . preaching God (and Evil
came on him)
came within the surrounded clearing, fences, walls
to his barn, the great house where each
lived singly. to cast out terror
of age, of youth, he whipped an older son
in the cow lot, Elmo or Wilmo (Bud, Paul, John) beat his sons with
a horse whip, day in early fall
the trees turning; and the sons (Everett . . . Green)
turned on him
like holy angels with fire
they set their wills
drove him from the pastures, and he went
to new land, crossing the dividing
river, located a woman and
he took her. strangers to his house
the mother died ( a young son
later found him, himself cast out) he washed
the Book clean
pouring rampage of the river, watched
the strange levees float
clear as light-held chlorophyll, printed
words
washing and being obliterated
for as far as the eyes could see, in a perilous
journey downward
down the Mississippi, down gulf ways
and white water ways
a strange Ishmael, half white, returning
to Choctaw. the disoriented
(it took another generation before
we
could speak in secret of him) a superimposed
heritage took over his house. blank pages
we are leaves that never turn
colors
lost from the green. without print
erased of the Word, shadows (the slightly darker
skin) he died in the swamps of Arkansas,
now rice country