Night in the Burned House, and: Holler

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Night in the Burned House, and: Holler Lucien Darjeun Meadows (bio) NIGHT IN THE BURNED HOUSE In my old bedroom, in this house now my Aunt A’s, walls mottle grey into black, char hiding that this room was ever painted purple in a hope that someone would guess, would know. Burning night, my hidden journals blown across the field—and my aunt, gathering boughs for wreaths, found I love him. I have not seen her eyes since. She who sang hymns with me as we hung the wash, who said you can tell the Lord anything, and me too— David and Jonathan a holy story, but my love a wickedness. All night, I press hands to these walls, whisper what I cannot say without a flower opening, a disappearing boy, a house burning. Let the morning never come. [End Page 117] HOLLER Growing up, we lived down in a holler, and sometimes, Coyote loped through our fields—nothing to eat but okra And tomatoes—before crossing dirt road to Baker’s farm. Sometimes, a scream unlimbing chicken. Sometimes, gunshot And silence. When we moved in, neighbor Johnson spoke Low to Father: You got a gun? Here, you are your own police. Only trees will hear you holler. But when storms crashed through, Father and I would cross treeline to stand fieldbare, breathing Bloodscent of wet earth, my red toes reaching like roots into dirt, His black hair plastered over shoulders and back like wolfmane, To howl and holler into lightning, our voices thick with thunder As we watch mountains close around us, push back olive sky, Sacrifice some hilltop sycamore so only rain comes running Down here: flashriver, summerflood, wash our holler out. [End Page 118] Lucien Darjeun Meadows Lucien Darjeun Meadows’s poetry has appeared in West Branch, Hayden’s Ferry Review, and Quarterly West. An AWP Intro Journals Project winner, he has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and received recognition from the Academy of American Poets. Meadows lives in Fort Collins, Colorado. Copyright © 2015 Berea College