Brooks Haxton Poems
- Every Death Is Magic From The ...
- Salesmanship, With Half A Dram... Gripping the lectern,...
- Deaf The waterfall in sunlight is God talking to herself. ...
- Unclean The pelican in scripture is unclean. It pukes dead ...
- Sackcloth I made sackcloth my garment once, by cutting arm ...
- Storm Cattle egrets in the dry grass waded like white ...
- 1985 It was the fortieth year since Buchenwald: two ...
Brooks Haxton, born in Greenville, Mississippi, in 1950, is the son of the novelist Ellen Douglas and the composer Kenneth Haxton. The recipient of fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, the National Endowment for the Humanities, and the Guggenheim Foundation, Haxton teaches in the writing programs at Syracuse University and Warren Wilson College. He lives in Syracuse with his wife and three children. more »
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Every Death Is Magic From The Enemy To Be Avenged
My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?
When fever burned the last light out of my daughter’s eyes,
I swore to find and kill the ones to blame. Men
must mount the long boat in the dark with spears.
At dawn, where the flowering spicebush hid my scent,
I crouched. A young wife, newborn slung across her chest,
came first for springwater. She stooped. My god,
for vengeance, spoke her secret name inside my ear. Her god
stepped back with no scream, his right hand at his mouth,
the knuckles clenched between the pointed teeth.