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by Andrew Hudgins |

The Unpromised Land Montgomery Alabama

 Despite the noon sun shimmering on Court Street,
each day I leave my desk, and window-shop,
waste time, and use my whole lunch hour to stroll
the route the marchers took.
The walk is blistering-- the kind of heat that might make you recall Nat Turner skinned and rendered into grease if you share my cheap liberal guilt for sins before your time.
I hold it dear.
I know if I had lived in 1861 I would have fought in butternut, not blue and never known I'd sinned.
Nat Turner skinned for doing what I like to think I'd do if I were him.
Before the war half-naked coffles were paraded to Court Square, where Mary Chesnut gasped--"seasick"--to see a bright mulatto on the auction block, who bantered with the buyers, sang bawdy songs, and flaunted her green satin dress, smart shoes, I'm sure the poor thing knew who'd purchase her, wrote Mrs.
Chestnut, who plopped on a stool to discipline her thoughts.
Today I saw, in that same square, three black girls pick loose tar, flick it at one another's new white dresses, then squeal with laughter.
Three girls about that age of those blown up in church in Birmingham.
The legendary buses rumble past the church where Reverend King preached when he lived in town, a town somehow more his than mine, despite my memory of standing on Dexter Avenue and watching, fascinated, a black man fry six eggs on his Dodge Dart.
Because I watched he gave me one with flecks of dark blue paint stuck on the yolk.
My mother slapped my hand.
I dropped the egg.
And when I tried to say I'm sorry, Mother grabbed my wrist and marched me back to our car.
I can't hold to the present.
I've known these streets, their history, too long.
Two months before she died, my grandmother remembered when I'd sassed her as a child, and at the dinner table, in midbite, leaned over, struck the grown man on the mouth.
And if I hadn't said I'm sorry,fast, she would have gone for me again.
My aunt, from laughing, choked on a piece of lemon pie.
But I'm not sure.
I'm just Christian enough to think each sin taints every one of us, a harsh philosophy that doesn't seem to get me very far--just to the Capitol each day at noon, my wet shirt clinging to my back.
Atop its pole, the stars-and-bars, too heavy for the breeze, hangs listlessly.
Once, standing where Jeff Davis took his oath, I saw the Capitol.
He shrank into his chair, so flaccid with paralysis he looked like melting flesh, white as a maggot.
He's fatter now.
He courts black votes, and life is calmer than when Muslims shot whites on this street, and calmer than when the Klan blew up Judge Johnson's house or Martin Luther King's.
My history could be worse.
I could be Birmingham.
I could be Selma.
I could be Philadelphia, Mississippi.
Instead, I'm this small river town.
Today, as I worked at my desk, the boss called the janitor, Jerome, I hear you get some lunchtime pussy every day.
Jerome, toothless and over seventy, stuck the broom handle out between his legs: Yessir! When the Big Hog talks --he waggled his broomstick--I gots to listen.
He laughed.
And from the corner of his eye, he looked to see if we were laughing too.


by Andrew Hudgins |

Praying Drunk

 Our Father who art in heaven, I am drunk.
Again.
Red wine.
For which I offer thanks.
I ought to start with praise, but praise comes hard to me.
I stutter.
Did I tell you about the woman, whom I taught, in bed, this prayer? It starts with praise; the simple form keeps things in order.
I hear from her sometimes.
Do you? And after love, when I was hungry, I said, Make me something to eat.
She yelled, Poof! You're a casserole! - and laughed so hard she fell out of bed.
Take care of her.
Next, confession - the dreary part.
At night deer drift from the dark woods and eat my garden.
They're like enormous rats on stilts except, of course, they're beautiful.
But why? What makes them beautiful? I haven't shot one yet.
I might.
When I was twelve I'd ride my bike out to the dump and shoot the rats.
It's hard to kill your rats, our Father.
You have to use a hollow point and hit them solidly.
A leg is not enough.
The rat won't pause.
Yeep! Yeep! it screams, and scrabbles, three-legged, back into the trash, and I would feel a little bad to kill something that wants to live more savagely than I do, even if it's just a rat.
My garden's vanishing.
Perhaps I'll plant more beans, though that might mean more beautiful and hungry deer.
Who knows? I'm sorry for the times I've driven home past a black, enormous, twilight ridge.
Crested with mist it looked like a giant wave about to break and sweep across the valley, and in my loneliness and fear I've thought, O let it come and wash the whole world clean.
Forgive me.
This is my favorite sin: despair- whose love I celebrate with wine and prayer.
Our Father, thank you for all the birds and trees, that nature stuff.
I'm grateful for good health, food, air, some laughs, and all the other things I've never had to do without.
I have confused myself.
I'm glad there's not a rattrap large enough for deer.
While at the zoo last week, I sat and wept when I saw one elephant insert his trunk into another's ass, pull out a lump, and whip it back and forth impatiently to free the goodies hidden in the lump.
I could have let it mean most anything, but I was stunned again at just how little we ask for in our lives.
Don't look! Don't look! Two young nuns tried to herd their giggling schoolkids away.
Line up, they called, Let's go and watch the monkeys in the monkey house.
I laughed and got a dirty look.
Dear Lord, we lurch from metaphor to metaphor, which is -let it be so- a form of praying.
I'm usually asleep by now -the time for supplication.
Requests.
As if I'd stayed up late and called the radio and asked they play a sentimental song.
Embarrassed.
I want a lot of money and a woman.
And, also, I want vanishing cream.
You know- a character like Popeye rubs it on and disappears.
Although you see right through him, he's there.
He chuckles, stumbles into things, and smoke that's clearly visible escapes from his invisible pipe.
It make me think, sometimes, of you.
What makes me think of me is the poor jerk who wanders out on air and then looks down.
Below his feet, he sees eternity, and suddenly his shoes no longer work on nothingness, and down he goes.
As I fall past, remember me.


by Andrew Hudgins |

In The Well

 My father cinched the rope,
a noose around my waist,
and lowered me into
the darkness.
I could taste my fear.
It tasted first of dark, then earth, then rot.
I swung and struck my head and at that moment got another then: then blood, which spiked my mouth with iron.
Hand over hand, my father dropped me from then to then: then water.
Then wet fur, which I hugged to my chest.
I shouted.
Daddy hauled the wet rope.
I gagged, and pressed my neighbor's missing dog against me.
I held its death and rose up to my father.
Then light.
Then hands.
Then breath.