Bullwhip Rose

Always knew God was tetched,
what with armadillos, the moon,
and Günter Rose. He just flung a soul
into that baby. New cry in winter
wailed into Bullwhip, God's Günter
under a Confederate sky,
lashing "shuffalongs" in white fields.

Brothers marched North.
Brothers marched South.
They marched past Günter,
shadow in a cave,
Blue Ridge hidey-holes,

miles from unpicked clouds.
Fields waited for sons,
sons waited for Papa's swinging arm.
Texas took those sons,
and years later:

     "Horses rocked us toward that bless-you place.
     I bumped along on the bed
     in chaw-spattered, church white.

     I was hush like raw cotton,
     unpicked in the sun.

     Suppose other wagons came
     just so he could crack them aside."

Old whip curls like a rattler's memory
in my Grandma Rose's lap.
She speaks of digging dirt, a small grave
to return it to ready hands.

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copyright d. dixon
3/16/05
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