Poetry

Mississippi Mud

Carol Prejean Zippert

He said he was from Mississippi.
He wore a western hat and his
face flushed beet-red when I stepped on
his ego. I asked him to look at
himself but my words were rejected
in mid-air since he had not given me
permission to speak.

He said he was from Mississippi.
He wore a dark shirt and a painted tie
and his eyes dripped venom when I
pointed to the white hood on his head.
He sat petrified but his rage reached
my throat to strangle in the truth that
he did still carry the lynching rope.

He said he was from Mississippi.
He wore his hair in a ponytail and his skin was
rusted and cracked from the dry southwest wind.
In his nakedness he slipped from his self-erected
pedestal no longer able to hide from the history
he told himself didn’t exist. He spat rocks
at me in punishment for his sins.

He said he was from Mississippi.
He wore fancy cowboy boots. And when I raised
my hands to free my throat the fire of his breath
kicked at my belly. But his punches struck only
the barriers he built for both of us –
barriers crumbling and scattering like dried
Mississippi mud in a southwest wind.