Do you see treetops? STOP. A brush fire cutting through the noxious green. STOP. Brown hands the color of branches waving x’s into in the dander. STOP. A random uncle walking into the flames. STOP. He isn’t random. STOP. That’s the genius. STOP. Of panic turned to wish. STOP. It’s Nat Turner. STOP. I watched a massacre. STOP. All those men on the run with him were hung. STOP. And then cooked. STOP. Eaten. STOP. I was eavesdropping on God. STOP. She let me try on her costume. STOP. And I got stuck. STOP. And you know what I saw? STOP. That uncle who followed the flame. STOP. He was going somewhere the others couldn’t yet see for trying. STOP. And he got there too. STOP. Him and Jim were beautiful blue red and overriding everybody. STOP. And Nat was there beaming, slaying edges for a living. STOP. Sending everybody back-up. STOP. Laughing at death
