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Mississippi Moon Madness
Nights without moons
down in Hangdog
drove Papa to strange fits
of Mississippi madness.
Boyhood memories echoed,
brought back ghosts,
his father still fleeing
three-letter white boys
of the bed-sheet fold,
crosses flaming
in a lonesome field
tilled for crucifixion.
Our family kept curfew
behind covered windows,
snuffed out lamps,
as the old sentinel,
pocketed shells,
gripped the oiled shotgun,
left to walk the homestead
‘til first light.
Like spearheads hammered
to readiness on ancient anvils
the cycled rise of his madness
stirred revolutions in offspring,
claimed us while we awaited
his next-blood in birthing rooms.
Each day, dusk gathers us for duty,
we keep vigil on our blocks
where Motherland warriors
drive the night
into surrender.
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