errol miller
On Delta's Edge
Hauntingly
a man blows out his lamp
it blazes up one last time and recedes
into the dark night air of Louisiana
apart form light, the man is nothing
fingering gold stars for comfort, groaning
weak-footed, he checks his calendar
and his ticket to the Promised Land, breaking out
in sweat, in the work-space of a hickory house
he is not ready, reading his newspaper
calling home collect to Mama
thinking of fishing and mild heart trouble
he clutches his Bible and rushes
to the open window, the portrait of
his grandson flickers in his mind
all the comings, all the goings of old lovers
extending the muscle of this right arm upward
he admires his wrinkled flash, standing
on the edge of the humid Delta
he was once handsome, strumming
big guitars in slantback Bars&Grills
this newfound freedom, he steps across
the fields of spring, the Jordan, he is on
a lush transcendental journey he once
read about at Oxford, the driver
of the coach is misty-eyed
thinking of the Blue and Gray
and all the imperial childhood arguments
never finished, that flood
of forgiveness he gives himself
putting on his straw plowing hat
mumbling to himself.
