Twice-Bound

The Man In Black

1229.2009

The man came to me

on a black horse,

his flask full

of black water.

He rode along

a deep black lake,

his ride cavorting

with its reflection.

He wore a black suit

that made his fingers

bone-bright,

and pulled his hat down low—

it smelled like bad meat,

like a million roads

heading nowhere far.

“You must be Earth’s daughter,”

he said.

I told him I was.

“How’s life

walking along her spine?”

“It’s like striking a match

on gasoline,” I said—

“beautiful bravo,

bitter blight.”

The man in black nodded.

“So I hear,”

he said,

spitting into the dirt,

grinning like a gentleman

carved from bad omens.

He stepped off his horse

to walk beside me.

There were banjos

in his eyes.

The grass between us

was waist-deep,

and the wind

sighed like a tired woman.

The sun

was a coal-speck

burning in my eye.

“I tell you, girl,”

he muttered,

“livin’ ain’t easy.

You got people’s pain

stacked against ya.”

Then he turned solemn:

“You got to reckon next time, now.”

We stopped

where a dirt road

vanished

into a hole of wire-twisted trees.

A dog barked,

somewhere far.

“Maybe from the Janus plantation,”

he said.

Then,

he took out his flask.

“Want some?”

I stared at it

a good while.

All these years

I’d been thirsty.

And I thought—

why not?

I was learning

to leave trails

with no scent.

I drank the black water.

There was nothing else.

m.c.f.