From the five string throat of the banjo,
night crawls on its knees, a crooked hymn.
Flat as a skillet, the dark doesn’t listen,
dragging its belly on the kudzu.
Playing for the babies buried under pecan
trees. The banjo speaking for the dead.
Autopsied by the leaves in the bayou.
But ain’t nothing in the belly, but what
the shovel puts there. Come rain or shine,
leaving the rattle behind with a pluck,
thrum…and clawhammer.










