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A Howling Dust
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Cormorant
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1
The soil here is hard in summer
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so I buried my father in a tomb of rocks,
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a plot behind St. Catherine's church
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to lay rest the gilded dreams of pitiable men.
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With gold found to the North,
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Quartzburg drove out its whores,
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its foreigners and roughnecks.
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They settled this camp.
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Pa left every day to mine.
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I'd follow him to the gulch,
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my pan and shovel in hand,
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a child devoted to riches.
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The Mexicans often staged
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bull and bear fights near the bar.
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They kept a boy entertained
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when there were no hangings to enjoy.
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The Cantonese flooded the quarries,
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working for less than the Whites.
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My father would curse the Orientals,
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yet came home reeking of opium.
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A group of my friends and I
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left to explore the creek.
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The Chinaman kneeled there,
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gleaning for gold.
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We mocked him, and pushed him,
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I prodded him with my knife.
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He gripped his revolver
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and fired in the air.
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The errant bullet
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ricocheted off of a stone
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and grazed my leg.
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I ran back bawling
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to the town.
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Mobs
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surround
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the crying Chinaman,
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Father clutching the noose.
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Law
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arrived.
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The sheriff demanded
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that he be jailed and properly tried.
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Gangs amassed
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late at night
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outside the jail.
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Father led,
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rope in hand,
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prey in his cell.
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Soothing lies.
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Tempted with
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tobacco leaves,
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the Chinese
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reached his arm
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through the bars.
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The lynch mob swiftly grabbed
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the gleaner's exposed hand.
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Father wrapped the collar
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around his neck.
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The horde yanked on the rope,
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Chinaman dragged and choked,
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his brains dashed upon the wall.
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Soon all the gold mines dried
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but that blood never did.
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Red still stains the jail cell wall.
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Father was never tried,
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none mourn a foreigner,
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but I saw guilt in his eyes.
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With all the riches spent,
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the people left the town
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yet I stayed to dwell here still.
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When Father died of drink
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I did not weep for him.
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I pray the grave unburdens his sins.
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I pray that someone will remain to bury me.
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I pray that someone will remain.
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