First Supper

The way a white  gizzard like  neck  hinges back in  shameless    awe   and      erotic   hatred is    the  exact  inverse   of   the bow  in  the  lynched  man’s  head   slinging toward  the crowd   or   one  side    like   a nod      or   endlessly revolving  paddle.  Better  to  leave  here    alive   than   to  leave  here    dead    the  bled  out   body  knows     becoming  the molasses of   the  sycamore     and     the   history   of   your   festive   sickness.     Next   is    the   castration.  The  part they’ve   all been waiting   for.   The  preacher   does    the   honors,  the  hanged   was   a  sinner    the    score   was    his    color     low   in     the   dim      with    a  whisper   of   ocean   bottom.   He   uses   a   simple  pocket  knife   to  cut  the  ripe   sex   down    as  if    he   himself   has  birthed   it    from   an    emptied   scripture.     Then   someone   starts   a  fire with some fallen limbs     the    crowd    gathers     eager    and    waits    for   the   dark member   to  char  and   everyone     gets   a  taste     of  his   own     desire     to    be    part   of    the    body   under   the  sycamore     tree—     Nothing   animates   these   people    like    the   flowers     of    their    own     evil,    only   the   veil  of   death   makes  them   dance.    Backing     away     from   the   scene  to   get   a  closer  walk:    a    crowd   of   white      men   and   women    surround   one   black   man         hang   him in an arbor   until he’s    presumed    dead         castrate  him     and   eat    his     seed      never    looking     away    from   his   naked   body                for long enough         to   appreciate  this    sacred   birth   of  their     nation