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Once on a
Night in the Delta
A Report
from Hell
for Sterling Brown
By Etheridge Knight Gravel rattles
against the fenders of the van.
The River flashes
in the distance.
The wind is thick
with the scent of honeysuckle
The road from
Greenville curves like the sickle
Of the new moon,
now hanging over east Texas.
Moun' Bayou sleeps
on a straight street
The poor lives on
both sides of the tracks
In this town peopled
by Blacks.
Tho the
bloods/no/pack pistols
And rap on two way
radios,
And the homes of a
few are spacious and new
With sunken patios;
Tho the dice
are/shot/thru a leather horn and
The whiskey burns
my belly in the early morning.
We still shuffle in
lines, like coffles of slaves
Stamps for food—the
welfare rolls and the voting polls
We frown. Our eyes
are dark caves
Of mourning. —So
I'd like to report to you, Sir Brown—
From away/down/here—
Mississippi is
still hell, Sir Brown—
For me and Slim Greer
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