Mississippi

There are ghosts in Mississippi. Black hands clawing at the silent face rising under constitutional plastic engraving empty coffins lithium unconscious in fields by blanketed skylines shifting seasonal filth-blue hallucinations. Moving dirt like animals unaffected by persistence missionary childbirth sequestered limitless a mother’s arms. In every blossom grows avoidance. Diseased landscapes alive-broken skin folding into blistered evocation séance listen at the voices breathing “murder” in the wind. Try to remember what has happened here: Magnolia laughs with putrefaction blood-white pustule cooking in humidity stench that pregnant feeds the air like blood that feeds the earth.