Kentucky Blues
This article originally appeared in Southern Exposure Vol. 25 No. 3/4, "New Writing from the Working-Class South." Find more from that issue here.
excerpts from “Beaver Dam Rocking Chair Marathon” to be published by Tilt-A-Whirl Press in Summer of 1998.
I am a poor wayfaring stranger
A wandring thru this vale of woe
But there’s no sickness, toil, or danger,
In That bright land to which I go.
I’m going there to see my mother,
I’m going there no more to roam;
I’m going over Jordan
I’m only going over home
*
from Kentucky he came to east Chicago railyard to work
he was gone
and at night after 14 hour days
Gideon’s Bible and The
Cheapest Wine warmed
body and
soul sacred ceremony
in ramshackle bedbugnewspaperwalledbeersign
neon hotel
within eyeshot of “the yard”
not far
to lumber on frigid morn
*
early evening
thru the night
all night
the wind whispers cries wails sings
to her
and thru the cracks
of
her attic walls
she listens she
listens listens
and when
the wind don’t blow
she
turns an ear
to the
voice coming to her
thru
the stillness
thru the
stillness of gnarled cedar and pine
blanketing like shrouds the old
grayweathered woodslatted farmhouse
nestled deep in this coalbarren wilderness
and she turns an ear
to the voice
coming to her
thru
the stillness
of
cedar and pine
and thru the stillness
she turns and looks at his
gray railman’s hat hanging limp from 8penny
nail on wormwood wall
his hat and railroad manual
were all
he brought home
the last time
*
but that first Christmas visit
from east
Chicago and his new job
he brought her a blue calico dress and red
sweater with pearl buttons
carried on the train with gifts for all
he and they all proud
of him a man no longer boy
but
always hard worker of farm and mine
in this pioneer Kentucky land
but now he returns again so
soon unexpected
returns eternal
presence
home for good his body
from east Chicago
railyards he comes
his body crushed between coal
cars coal
and like the bituminous gold shipped from Kentucky to
foreign parts
he’s delivered by train
long wailing whistle
signals his arrival
last stop of the L&N
*
and a year later frail tired torn
she drifts
thru tears
by candlelight she sees
she
sees his spirit at top of attic stairs
at foot of her bed calming real
presence he moves closer reaching to her
his hand touches her forehead
her eyes close finally
to deep dream sleep