The Confession
By Morri Creech
I could draw you a picture if I had a mind to.
Out past the last road there were woods and a still.
There were cars in front of a ramshackle barn,
the moon in a cloud and a tree on the hill.
I remember the raw December weather,
boys shouting curses and most of them drunk.
I remember the wind in the barley stubble.
I remember the man they dragged from the trunk.
The moon appeared and disappeared.
Headlights and whiskey. A tree on the hill.
We tied the knot and we threw it over.
It took half an hour for his legs to go still.
Just boys, for all that, in December weather,
settling a grievance, correcting a wrong.
I remember one shoe kicked off in the heather.
I remember my feet hurt from standing so long.
The place may be there. I could draw you a picture.
The moon in a cloud and a tree on the hill.
Damned if I know how I see it so clearly.
Don’t ask me to speak of it. Damned if I will.
Out past the last road there were woods and a still.
There were cars in front of a ramshackle barn,
the moon in a cloud and a tree on the hill.
I remember the raw December weather,
boys shouting curses and most of them drunk.
I remember the wind in the barley stubble.
I remember the man they dragged from the trunk.
The moon appeared and disappeared.
Headlights and whiskey. A tree on the hill.
We tied the knot and we threw it over.
It took half an hour for his legs to go still.
Just boys, for all that, in December weather,
settling a grievance, correcting a wrong.
I remember one shoe kicked off in the heather.
I remember my feet hurt from standing so long.
The place may be there. I could draw you a picture.
The moon in a cloud and a tree on the hill.
Damned if I know how I see it so clearly.
Don’t ask me to speak of it. Damned if I will.
Morri Creech reads “The Confession”
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More of Ken Abbott’s photography can be found in his Eyes on the South feature.
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