A Trilogy of Myths from the Georgia Farm

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A Trilogy of Myths from the Georgia Farm

I. Snake

On Fridays in June, the contentious jay
fetches twigs to Hell

for Diabolus to stoke his wasting fires.
Chatty, curious, bellicose—

a corvid after all—no one knows
how the blue jay

got his job. But that black collar,
like a noose, and

those ebony eyes and beak that can poke
a hole straight through your soul—

no wonder the old dragon took note
on his long walks

through Eden’s shade and found jays
nesting in the haywire,

heart-shaped green of a mulberry stand—
morus rubra, named

for blood and the locked-up
languish of decay.

But leave it to Lucifer to cut both
ways. While the crested

jay bundles and flies, the Trickster
sends his legless friend—

a milky, blotched ratsnake—to climb
the mulberry’s twisted trunk,

search for eggs or fledglings, and squeeze
each with his passionate ache.

II. Crow

What more, really,
can be said
about the common

crow? Lover of bright
objects,
agent and omen

of death. Crows
play,
hoard, gather,

count and caw.
Roost
by the millions

and never Never
NEVER-
more! are ravens (take

note of the wedge-
vs. fan-
shaped tails).

And that murder cliché?
—don’t
even go there.

But this, friend,
know—
a cracked window

invites the cunning
crow
to drop pebbles

in the shining still
waters
of your soul,

till your spirit
rises
and the short-

billed Corvus
slakes
his terrible thirst.

III. Fish

Not a purr, pet, paw, fur or
feline cat. Not

a stretch-and-rub mate for your
morning wakes.

But a blue, whiskered, under-
water cat, big

as a mud-bellied sow, inscrutable
as a palsied whale.

And what he means to you and me
as yet remains

unsaid. But say we must—be-
cause he swims

the karst caves of your deep
life, the fissures

and sinkholes, in aquifers ne’er
run dry. You cain’t

stare him in the eye, but he
you. And does.

And when your last shallow breath
pools in swallow holes

run tight, he snatches your soul
like cut-bait,

and whisks the stink away by night.
Atropos? He laughs

at that scissor-myth shit, because
his white-chasmed

mouth is big as the whole damn world,
and his forked tail

a road much traveled. Wonder ye then
at his cold and feral hunt?

2 thoughts on “A Trilogy of Myths from the Georgia Farm

  1. There is legend talk off a species of notorious one eyed billy goats that roam the deep woods of South GA. Some say myth, but for a small group of frightened campers, we believe.

    Liked by 1 person

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