“WITNESS”
God is right there, in the brier. Turn the rows, change the tires, bow the heads, feed the mouths. Only the rhythm will yield the harvest. Go on, now. Shoot the hog between the eyes. It’s easiest that way.
Serve them all.
Just like your grandmother’s mother, hunger for the next revival. For white tents and folding chairs. For the anthems and the stillness. For the moment, in reprise, when the organ changes key and everything lifts. For a house not made with hands.
Ache for them all.
Hewn pillars and let the houses hold the secrets. Plug the baseboard holes w Brillo pads. When the pine planks bow, nail them down again. Smoke the raccoons from the chimney. Shoo the blues like mosquitos. Take the paint off with turpentine.
Fix them all.
The body is the temple and you are the living stone. Horse liniment. Sassafras tea. Epsom salt. Camphor. Sweet oil. On your own, you cannot heal.
Prepare them all.
The eager hummingbird, and the calm blue heron. The nervous squirrel, and the elusive hawk. Even the circling vultures, and even the fire ants. Even the black snake coiled around the weed-eater.
Invite them all.
The black walnut husks, soaking. The diligent honeybee hive, bloating. Even the empty rain barrels. Even the frozen field. Even the starving pack of mangy cats.
Wait for them all.
Cornmeal and buttermilk. Raw okra in bushels. Cellar full of sweet potatoes. Roll the bills and fill the Ball jars. Keep the Bible by the bedside.
Stow them all.
Say to the land for which you are but one of many stewards:
Nobody’s free, until everybody’s free.
This time, the plow will be ready.
This time, you will save them all.
—H.C. McEntire; originally published in Oxford American, January 2018