Mary Woodson Sets the Grits Straight

They remember the clumped hot

grain burning breakdowns into his back,

his comeback to God Third degree salvation

Through word-of-mouth I’m his Wife Girlfriend Lover

Who gets it right The pistol’s click-down

til the hole blew open a way to say no, not today

You crazy for that one Mary Which door we enter through

Museum of dollar store dames Thrift fur and wrong

diagnoses Light wanderers through wrought iron gates

Who needs who when legends need a fix Forget us

until we’re dead Revised inaccurate if written at all

Paranoid peony Pen us songs to sit us up right

Make me happy baby, weave your cry down

in your bones, let me sing baby crazy I can’t leave

your love alone Crazy which door threw: archway,

rot iron gait, nails bruised at the beds, scarlet and slick

Was I scratching my way to the beginning?

Not his heard degree burn

click down of the pistol’s clamor, they said

he wanted me to be his knife, his whirlfriend

A hole enough to let the static out We rarely

strut through the front dour Often, men

believe we have the keys to unlocking every ghost

they can’t bear to face