Run, Mourner, Run, and: From the Never

RUN, MOURNER, RUN*

The creek is live and rolling hard across the bass middle of the rocks. A stampede

of young bucks pounding the forest floor filling in the staccatorhythm around the song’s only voice. How it swells the room past

its seams; she could be anywhere, her voice throwing itself against elm and dogwood,makes the jimsonweed nod and flex open its trumpet head.

The gerund making the line swing just before she tells youwhere you’re going just above, riding just above she says or

sometimes ride angels above when I’m listening differently. Resoundingwith what I’m seeing: three kids alternating pushing and pumping on the swingset

saying higher, higher. In other versions of the song,we see the word nigger replaces mourner, so.

(Isn’t desire a kind of mourning?) I was with her in that room as she wrang the throatmudof its salt. To catch the bead of sweat that falls, I’m sure, from her brow or full sideburn

as she shifts her weight and one floorboard cracks on my tongue.I know one truth about the throat and air’s twin desire

to become more than muscle and brute faith. She yelpsand ohs the mourner across the field.

Call the mourner me; she pushes me across the field wherethere’s someone singing to me from the other side, I’m listening. Say what

you will, the voice has always been light eddying through mud. Or, don’t sayanything. Someone has sung me all my hurts, someone is calling my name.

FROM THE NEVER*

To notice with the whole bodythe body’s imprecision to wantto exceed the body,to flee. Is to come fromthe never to hold allthe embers in the mouthand not once smoke outthe body’s exits?I lied my way into thisbody of egregious errorgood abhorrent bodyneeded adored bodyfeed on me please bodymore or less easy bodyunfinished almost boybody and its dirt pactits sullied is mine,mine.