Peonies.  1924

from Sanctuary, Vermont

In June the petals of Maman’s white peonies
bloomed against the picket fence
spreading out like mirth unbidden,
like girls, dressed fancy, laughing over nothing.
So it seemed the year
the Klan sprang up like mushrooms after rain,
sudden, strange.

The night the Klan burnt down our picket fence
there was no moon.
The shouts woke me.
I’d never heard the sound of hate before
but I knew it
the way a horse knows fire.
The sight.
The pointed hoods thrown back
like ladies’ bonnets on a windy day.
Their faces torch lit.
Among them, my own beau, Augustus Bannister.
His mother. His father, mad with drink.
I’d seen a wild dog’s mouth twist like that.

The peonies were gone.
Maman let the charred ground lay.
Papa slept with his rifle near.
The Klan did that, like mold to hay.
And my blossom days ended.
Sometimes the corn’s silk is gold
while there’s rot in the cob.
It’s the same with the world.
And it’s best to know.