Dear Miss Southern Lit Enthusiast in Nashville,

I have no doubt some men congress with cows or duel

or eye-gouge.  I have read the history of my native state

and know it is akin to Mr. Faulkner’s fiefdom where

boys lie awake nights contriving to steal red horses

or other men’s wives, their stores or sewing machines.

It’s not quite my demesne, you see.  They are working

out their salvation in fear and trembling, though different

from the people who wander into my yard, but you’re

right, he’s a big ‘un and dangerous if your poor mule

and wagon get stalled on the rails his Dixie Limited

is roaring down.  And yet, I won’t say I’m convinced

he understands how grace appearing in full surprise

amid the devil’s territory supplies the heart of any tale.

You needn’t be a papist to catch that, but when he says

you must murder your darlings, I also think of his Darl,

a bad idea given two hands too many and a questionable

soul.  But he does, I take it, understand the Black man

and the Black woman and how peculiar was our late

quaint institution, for he has those angels in his blood

and in his ear, and he knows how to shape a tragedy,

when to call in the dogs and yellow the fire to smoke.

My own mule is a suffering, smelly thing, mangy, lame

and refusing at his age to behave like a tractor, or maybe

I should say, My mule is Our Father, who leads us

into the tithe of temptation we can handle.  My mule

is the suffering penitent and my wagon those mortals

willing to brave the train if somehow they might be

saved from isolation, damnation and wormy corn.

Evil is not just the shame you saw about your sister,

not a spur to go off and stop time with a point-blank

bullet or years of silence in a hunt camp, but enough

of this spat with an aristocrat who’s not even here.

Evil is a mystery, pure and never simple, and people

are meant to endure it and aim for grace.  So there,

I’ve said my piece and offer him full respect.  He’s

the top banana, generalissimo.  He’s the big cheese.

Now can we just get back to that boy seeking help

in the woods?  The moon’s clockface in the mirror?

The crickety hymn?  Can we respect the weeping

coming from the woman who’s lost her daughter

and aches in vain for Christ’s sad face in the sky?

Let’s set all else aside to share her heart’s pain

and whisper words to soothe her now, please.

I know you know we’re all dying for some relief.

Yours in the cause,

Mule or Mouse (Flannery O’C)