Christine Jackson      Plantation         (Gary Kay)
A Dream of Spanish Moss 

Please, not this, at the edge of sleep.
I hunch in the rain with hard thoughts. 
One last crow squawks from atop 

a longleaf pine. Its fringed
branches drop pinecone
children on the dried grass. 

Spanish moss unfurls
like a taffeta bridal veil
draped across an ancient live oak.

Each lacy thread
twists into a tale
ripe for nuptial recital,

wisps for nesting birds,
fibers woven into prison garb,
stuffing for voodoo dolls.  

Along the tree’s muscular arms, 
flayed skin strips flash
the same gray green as dollar bills.
They dance in a breeze
of sultry rhythm, a low country
river of winding dissonance.  

Smelling of dried funeral wreaths,
ghost bodies flutter, swaying from
oak limbs in unspeakable struggle.

As the last crow disappears,
dark-hearted live oak and moss
clasp in silver symbiosis.
​