79. lynching. Circa 1920, location unknown. The arc of the moral universe is an arm span flailing in the Georgia heat and nightfall knows not what to do with us. Unable to contain our own bodies, we bind the limbs of another. We watch for a withering stillness, yet silence never comes. Amidst pretense we close our eyes but cannot shield our ears from the chorus, that tripping over itself, rushes from his unbound mouth - notes that harmonize in the key of terror: a refrain that ricochets from oak to pine - sacred to profane – and the rhythm of the beat of pecans as they drop allow my own transcendence to become imaginable… I’ll Fly Away the moment the match strikes. Oh Glory, I pray let me fly. Yonder, beyond the syncopated righteousness of ceremonious endings - into a horizon where virtuoso hearts are not consumed by virtuous tongues. I pray my ascent precedes the grand finale; I pray I go unnoticed and empty-handed. History will forget us with each rising sun. Tomorrow, I will wash my face and shudder in the reflection of what I’ve been asked to become; because in becoming I’ve forgotten how to sustain great heights on quivering legs and with arms flailing.