Of all the places you could die
trapped if you didn’t leave fast
or have lots of money, this is the one
you remember best.  This is your birthplace.
          You wanted out, the day she ran away,
left you the child the furniture.
But you stayed, innocent and twenty-one,
made love to practiced women.  One,
forty-one, who kept your child for free;
one, thirty-three, who hoped her husband
died, a little at a time; and one,
twenty-nine, who came to you animalized,
hardened with lies.
       It was a steel time town, younger
and harder that Birmingham Sunday could break.
Four black children died.  You made love
to the wife of a salesman.  He failed
to give her children and failed again
she cried when you stopped cold,
told her, no, no more children.
           That night outside Memphis, the Mississippi
mosquitoes like furies bidding you goodbye,
you turn in mind the meaning of escape.
Almost, you wanted to lie, you’re innocent
if you don’t go back.  The child asleep, your red car
packed, you douse the fire and drive out fast.