Fuss, fight, and cutting the huckley-buck--Dear Malindy, Underground, must I always return to the country of the dead,
To the coons catting about in the trees, the North Carolina pines Chattering about sweetening bodies in their green
whirring?
Do these letters predict my death--some sound of a twig Breaking then a constant drowning--a butter bean drying
Beneath my nails? Casket, rascal, and corn bread cooling
board.
Dear Malindy, when the muskrats fight in the swamp I knows
It's you causing my skull to rattle. You predicted my death
With my own baby teeth and a rancid moon beneath our legs.
No girl, my arm still here. The antlers on the mantle yet quiet. All the ocean's water without me and yet in me. Never mind,
Malindy. They already shot the black boy on the road for dying Without their permission. Yes, gal, I put on my nice suit. And
wait.