Letter to Gabriel Written in the Margins of Murder Ballads
(Continued from Page 4)
All the sleeping Poteats. All their skin, impossible to see. All their land and gauzed light. All the asphalt and rain between us. All the kerosene on the carpet, kudzu weaving doors shut. All great-great-grandfathers gutting pigs. All great-grandmothers throwing sand on the blood. All industry siphoned. All selves creek-banked, collapsed. All plantations a coffin, a little vandalism. The whole family, haunted.
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