A 1,000 Voices

there are nights in kentucky
when the woods are too deep
and the tree tops scrape the moon,
sad harbinger tip toeing over the mountains

granny always warned us
between tokes taken from her corn cob pipe
about dangers that lurk in the darkness
of hills and hollows on nights like this:

keep ye heads low, children
stay ye the straight and narrow, babies
say ye prayers, little ones
cross yeself when ye goned astray, sweet ones

she’d guide us into piles each evening
like dead fallen leaves in october
before starting about the space
all her manners of sunset fixing:

nine broom straws in the fire, babies
fresh woodruff for the winders, sweet ones
dried basil for the door, lovelies
then ye drink yer milk and chamomile, dears

in front of her unbearably hot fireplace
she’d speak of shadrach between spits of tobacco
before crossing the cabin and praying
all of us into an uneasy sleep:

i smoor this fire this night, children
as the son of mary might, babies
the compassin’ of god be on it, sweet ones
the compassin’ of god on all the house, angels

she’d pluck away on her old mandolin
on nights when the howling got too bad
and the praying wouldn’t stifle our fear
stopping only if the screams neared the cabin:

keep yer eyes closed, sugars
let granny’s music fill yer ears, babies
let the haints pass us by, little ones
the holy ghost is fornenst us, loves

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
safe and sound in hindman
late at night when the moon is heavy
heaving herself over appalachia
these are the times i hear the howling
echoing down from the hills and hollows:

make sure the basil is tight
is there enough woodruff for the night
then you take your milk and chamomile
let the dark hours peacefully pass
along with the kentucky moon, babies