Howlin’ Wolf

In Parchman  Prison

in stripes  standing

guitar gripped like a neck

strangled  strummed

high strung & hard.

Mostly you moan

see how heavy

your hands hang with-

out women or words

we cannot

quite know. How is this

not hell  being made

to make music here where

music only  makes time

go slow cloudy

like blue

Depression glass? Under

the hard sun of your smile

we see stripes like those

that once lined the slave’s

unbent back

blood  & gunk

spit it out

a song low down

gutbucket

built for comfort

not built for speed.

Gimme the brack

of the body the blue

the bile all

you sing or howl.

If a wolf then lone

then orphan then hangry

enough to enter into town

to take food from the mouths

of low houses a hen

a stray it is never

enough. You don’t need

tell me why

we here you know

better black

as an exclamation point

the men all around

you in stripes

how long their sentences

their dark faces ellipses

everywhere accidental.

The white man

in front proud

or is it prideful

he wears no number

& now exiled under

the earth no one

recalls his name.

Yours a dark wick

waiting we burn

wanting you to step

into song

to again howl

till you sweat through

your shirt & two

white handkerchiefs

a revival

preacher waving

praise no flag

of surrender—

the guitar a blunt

instrument your hair

your shoes even your

voice shines.