Sunday we lay handson a girl of ten hand on hand oncornsilk hair. We singthe secret language sungthe day the tin roof of the tower beaton God’s floorboardhe got cramp in heaven.Like our crying and ourfornicating so close to his bedwas so many shrill mice in a prettypine floor. To healthe girl with the crippled up legGod sends back the songhe took and down it comescontrary in one mouth as firegentle on our bodies as rain.Soft rain swells the Cumberlandand all her fields in April nuzzlesbuttercups the mules won’t touchthe crowpoison the wake-robinthe bluets of the field.Every song got a beat beneath.Start with the whippoorwillearly meadow colors creepinto the sky. My sons made thistobacco sled I prime with the jennytoss the last of the sandlugs for the restto thrive. So hot the wasps hang on the honeysuckletoo spent to buzz a sermon.I know my song rememberswhat my fathers told their strings.