A Celebration: Maude, OK
They were taken through the fence by moonlight,
chained together at the neck. Taken to the tabernacle
in the brush arbor, a makeshift altar.
They stood on either side of the blackjack oak
where the Baptists hung their lantern. They faced south
and were forced to walk like the arms of a clock
to wind their chain around the trunk, now
they faced north. The pastor belted his Colt
and knelt by the brush pile.
One boy fought, throwing chunks
of burning wood into the night but the crowd hurled
them back, as he strained against his collar
yelling through blood and spittle until he hung himself
and fell into the flames.
The other boy was almost still. He groaned once,
as the skin of his thigh curled down, and,
when the flame reached his ear, he batted his hand
as if chasing a fly that teased the flesh there. He sunk
to his knees and inhaled a great blossom.
In the dovegray morning, a slice of creamy yellow appeared
along the horizon. It was winter and the frost
tinged the tips of the grass white. The crowd was quiet,
sifting through the greasy ashes looking for souvenirs:
the soot-speckled link of the chain, a vertebrae twisted
from the spine, or even just a hunk of the burnt stump,
anything to hold up to the light, saying Remember,
remember when we burned those two boys
how lovely they were, bright under the dark oak,
how lovely, what a celebration.
They were taken through the fence by moonlight,
chained together at the neck. Taken to the tabernacle
in the brush arbor, a makeshift altar.
They stood on either side of the blackjack oak
where the Baptists hung their lantern. They faced south
and were forced to walk like the arms of a clock
to wind their chain around the trunk, now
they faced north. The pastor belted his Colt
and knelt by the brush pile.
One boy fought, throwing chunks
of burning wood into the night but the crowd hurled
them back, as he strained against his collar
yelling through blood and spittle until he hung himself
and fell into the flames.
The other boy was almost still. He groaned once,
as the skin of his thigh curled down, and,
when the flame reached his ear, he batted his hand
as if chasing a fly that teased the flesh there. He sunk
to his knees and inhaled a great blossom.
In the dovegray morning, a slice of creamy yellow appeared
along the horizon. It was winter and the frost
tinged the tips of the grass white. The crowd was quiet,
sifting through the greasy ashes looking for souvenirs:
the soot-speckled link of the chain, a vertebrae twisted
from the spine, or even just a hunk of the burnt stump,
anything to hold up to the light, saying Remember,
remember when we burned those two boys
how lovely they were, bright under the dark oak,
how lovely, what a celebration.