Say Goodbye, My Baby

There was the bronze horse
rearing at the courthouse,
the no-name soldier
waving a saber.

There was the barefoot boy
who took you swimming
in the blue hole north of town,
below the high bluffs
the Yankees couldn't take.

He gave you
a bailing twine bracelet
for your left ankle
and drew a horse of spit
for your right ankle.

There was your grandmother
who told you the story of shoes
designed by Perugia
she bought in New Orleans,
the story of a gray-blue gown
made by Madeleine Voinnet
she called, De La Fumee.

This horse is me, the boy said,
as sure as Orion swings night
like a sword into the river.

This horse is me and you
will know my pole-barn dreams
long after you leave
this one-horse town.