Don't Leave Hungry: Fifty Years of Southern Poetry Review

Singing Hymns to Go to Sleep

M I C H A E L C H I T W O O D Singing Hymns to Go to Sleep “Jesus, lover of my soul,” she sang to me, “let me climb the telephone pole, if the pole begins to shake let me down for Michael’s sake.” Where my name was was a blank and she would fill in the whole family before I drifted off. She said Old Scratch. She said “Elk” in the back of her throat when something surprised her. She said any water was deep enough to drown you. “Jesus, lover of my soul,” you could sing it as long as you had names. We took turns sleeping with her. After we looked under the bed, she would tell a story. There were three children. They went into the woods even though their mother said not. They met an old woman. 212 ❚ The 1990s The old woman had a crooked stick. The old woman said “Children, Children.” She had cages behind her house, big cages. The cages had birds the size of dogs. The woman fed the birds in pans like you cook in. The birds clopped their beaks like horses walking. The woman said to the littlest one, “Do you want to ride a bird?” She gave the bird a dose of something. Then the bird had feet like a hog. A hog will eat little children. She said that was enough. She said she thought she heard a rat. She said if a mockingbird hollered at night somebody’s blood would poison. “Jesus, lover of my soul,” she sang to me. I gave the names. If you forgot somebody, they would die the next day. The 1990s ❚ 213 ...