CW: implied racial violence, death.
This poem began as a letter from a grandmother to her grandchild. It warns of uncontrollable wickedness and gifts them wisdom for how to survive despite it.
Big Mama warned me
they only come out during cloudless days
when the sun soars high in the sky—a beacon, a war cry,
for Bells everywhere
She told me
their disguise
is not having one
Prey will roll onto its back so long as the monster’s lipstick is the right shade of demure
You will murder your own mother if given a virtuous enough reason to
I will slit my throat to save the life of a sinless stranger with pale hands as thin as, as quick as smoke
Big Mama warned me
once you realize they are attacking your tongue
(they always go for the tongue first)
it’s too late
There is only one way to beat them
one way to save yourself and your blood
Listen
They are not silent
(how could they be?)
They? are actors
their mouths? theaters
open all day—all night—weekends—holidays
They don’t know the meaning of silence
they’ve never heard of the word
their ancestors found silence and decapitated the poor beast so their children would never hear of
such a vile, loathsome creature
Listen
For the love of Appalachia, listen
Their words will ring in your ears
their sentences will be brass bands playing a song that should have never been conceived
but they’ve never met a tune they couldn’t maim, torture, and hang its body ’round their necks
like trophies
Bells like to hang bodies
or, more precisely, they like to wear bodies
theirs greyed and rotted away centuries ago
they live off the meat of other, more colorful people
Listen
Big Mama told me I’d be safe in the woods
safest right out in the open
(they prefer buildings)
(they prefer crowds)
So I lay my body across the pestilent earth like a sacrifice on a false altar
I grab ahold of the nearest oak tree trunk and I listen
