The River Carries Her
(after Faulkner, in Darl’s voice)
The wagon groans like a throat in fever,
mules shuddering at the smell of her,
cedar box sweating in the sun.
I see the boards warp
as if her breath still presses from inside,
as if she is not yet done speaking.
The sky leans low,
its clouds dragging their bellies in the river.
Jewel rides ahead,
his horse cutting the current into ribbons.
Anse’s hat brim drips
with the same water that swallows our wheels.
Dewey Dell’s eyes are a locked jar.
Vardaman watches the fish in his head swim away.
I hear her —
not in words,
but in the way the air thickens
when the coffin tilts,
in the way the buzzards
write her name in circles above us.
The river takes her weight,
then gives it back.
We keep moving,
because to stop
would be to hear what she has been saying all along.
.