Letter to Gabriel Written in the Margins of Murder Ballads
(Continued from Page 5)
I’ve played the slave narratives in abandoned places — among the candles and cinderblocks. Silo, dirt, house where the vultures live. All to bring you back. There’s a shopping mall where your anvil stood. I bought socks, a button-down shirt, and sat in the parking lot listening to the corroded wax cylinders — disintegrating dialects becoming a column of air anyone can pass through. I never deserved to hear them.
(Continue to Page 7)