-After Craig Brewer’s Black Snake Moan
Miss Mayella says There ain’t no better cure
for the blues than good pussy,
and I guess she’s half right, but I prefer men
when I elbow-crawl through Magnolias,
crushed cigarette butts.
It’s this awful itch, a hellfire born from
my memories in heat.
Lazarus claims God dropped me in his path,
a bare naked angel,
basset hound shackled to his radiator.
But I’m no doped up diva.
I’m not a bitch in need of neutering.
The dog never wants to writhe across the grass.
Still, when I spat in Laz’s face and said
I hated him, it wasn’t true.
That man never asked
why I wasn’t smothered at birth. No raping
me gently in puddles of booze.
Swanky Southern love:
a man who finally tongues my wounds.
The best moonshine
in all of backwoods Mississippi, and I swear,
he thinks I’m worth a song or two
in that drafty house,
as the good lord reaches
calloused hands down to rob us of our skin.
Our drunk, hungry mouths.