Here's Atsuro again, with his astounding voice and ear. I love his made-up words and alliteration. There's a lot of darkness here, but also hope and the speaker's strong will.
I like how the word mouth resurrects as moth at the end, and the line "Nothing wrong with gone as a place for living" is a keeper.
This writer is doing something outrageous with the narrative style. It's like Hopkins meets Faulkner.
________________________
Moth
— Candy’s Stop, up Hwy. 52
I been ‘Candy’ since I came here young.
My born name keeps but I don’t say.
To her who my mama was I was
pure millstone, cumbrance. Child ain’t but a towsack full of bane.
Well I lit out right quick.
Hitched, and so forth. Legged it.
Was rid.
Accabee at first (then, thicket-hid) then Wadmalaw;
out to Nash’s meat-yard, Obie’s jook. At
County Home they had this jazzhorn drumbeat
orphan-band ‘them lambs’ they —
They let me bide and listen.
This gristly man he came he buttered me
then took me off (swore I was surely something) let me ride in back.
Some thing —
(snared) (spat-on) Thing
being morelike moresoever what he meant.
No I’d never sound what brunts he called me what he done
had I a hundred mouths.
How his mouth. Repeats
on me down the years. Everlastingly
riveled-looking, like rotfruit. Wasn’t it
runched up like a grub.
First chance I inched off (back through bindweed) I was gone.
Nothing wrong with gone as a place
for living. Whereby a spore eats air when she has to;
where I’ve fairly much clung for peace.
Came the day I came here young
I mothed
my self. I cleaved apart.
A soul can hide like moth on bark.
My born name keeps but I don’t say.
Source: Poetry (December 2015)
