All Hallows

The dark man of the Delta
lives in a marsh on Hwy 64
He stares, threadbare
At drivers of cars that pass him by
The pines whisper
secrets of forgotten time
When the Mississippi rolls hot and red
at the beckon of moon tide
This is where America bleeds
This is where her menses hides
This is where the earth
rises up through men’s legs
craving violence and lust
The faithful crawl into
cluttered closets, weary of their shame
and paint words on wooden signs
to silence disparate cries
from liberal passersby
Sun-faded type—


—stating a creed that none believes
The grass cannot bear
to blanket this land in green
The harvest hastens to hoarfrost
The river floats the ghosts of a dead trade
whose hope hides behind the haze
that sags around the corners
of the sky’s closing eyes
It frowns beneath the muddy clouds
that wrinkle when the mud tosses its hair about
The storm glaze pisses on the old maid
the old spinster earth


Andrea Thornton: "There's not much to say really. I am a Catholic convert and a professional chaplain trying to do my part to heal the wounds on the soul. Most of these wounds are the result of some poor fool's failure to see beauty, opting instead to impose its will on others. Religion itself has suffered too much use to such ends. I write poems because they are useless, and the world needs to practice beholding useless things."