(after Robert Johnson’s, “Hellhound on my Trail”)
There’s a hellhound on his trail, hellhound, there’s
a hellhound on his trail, on his trail, a
pack of hounds hunting him fleeing their pack.
Found by hounds, found by men, by camera found.
Camera sees body slumped to its knees. Camera
sees what should not be seen, what must be seen:
murder, eye-socket bullet-blackened, murder;
wounds where ears once heard hellhounds chasing; wounds
from bullets hunting groin close range; wounds from
bullets exploding mouth to blood-blooms; bullets
found target leather-bound to pine trunk, found
bound hands useless to prevent its lead hounds
This is not a postcard from hell. No, this
postcard has proper postage. This postcard
guaranteed by U.S. Mail, guaranteed
safe passage, safe arrival, content safe.
Scrawled message, “…token of a great day,” scrawled
beside one cent Ben Franklin stamp behind
picture of teaming downtown Dallas, picture
taken one Thursday, lunch hour, picture taken:
old Negro hanging beneath Elk’s Arch, old
dead Allen Brooks stripped naked, beaten dead
before he hung. Clothes snatched as trophies before
photographer captured his photograph.
Churches in blood is old news. Our black churches
exist for solace from spilled blood, exist
to provide Christ and sanctuary; to
structure equality of color, structure
embrace of all who Bible study, embrace
Rough young man lost in hunt under church roof.
One witness left to tell the worst of one.
No screaming audio; no, “Please, no!” No
last calls to Jesus as nine bled their last.
Slaughter-stained battle flag flies after slaughter.
Forty-five, birthday gun a forty-five,
targeting beloved icon, hate’s best target.
Under Church Roof full post
(134 words, estimated 32 secs reading time)