MOTH

—Candy’s Stop, up Hwy. 52

I been ‘Candy’ since I came here young.

My born name keeps but I don’t say.

To her who my mama was I was

pure millstone, cumbrance. Child ain’t but a towsack full of bane.

Well I lit out right quick.

Hitched, and so forth. Legged it.

Was rid.

Accabee at first ( then, thicket-hid ) then Wadmalaw;

out to Nash’s meat-yard, Obie’s jook. At

County Home they had this jazzhorn drumbeat

orphan-band ‘THEM LAMBS ’ they—

They let me bide and listen.

This gristly man he came he buttered me

then took me off ( swore I was surely something ) let me ride in back.

Some thing—

( snared ) ( spat-on ) Thing

being morelike moresoever what he meant.

No I’d never sound what brunts he called me what he done

had I a hundred mouths.

How his mouth. Repeats

on me down the years. Everlastingly

riveled-looking, like rotfruit. Wasn’t it

runched up like a grub.

First chance I inched off ( back through bindweed ) I was gone.

Nothing wrong with gone as a place

for living. Whereby a spore eats air when she has to;

where I’ve fairly much clung for peace.

Came the day I came here young

I mothed

my self. I cleaved apart.

A soul can hide like moth on bark.

My born name keeps but I don’t say.