On the way to Money, Mississippi, we see little ghosts of snow, falling faint
as words while we try to find Robert Johnson’s muddy maybe grave. Beside Little Zion,
along the highwayside, this stone keeps its offerings—Bud & Louisiana Hot Sauce—the ground giving
way beneath our feet. The blues always dance cheek to cheek with a church—
Booker’s Place back in Greenwood still standing, its long green bar
beautiful, Friendship Church just a holler away. Shotgun, shotgun, shotgun—
rows of colored houses, as if the same can of bright stain might cover the sins
of rotting wood, now mostly tarpaper & graffiti holding McLaurin Street together—
RIP Boochie—the undead walk these streets seeking something we take pictures of
& soon flee. The hood of a car yawns open in awe, men’s heads
peer in its lion’s mouth seeking their share.…
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The New Yorker (Digital) - 1 Issue, February 22, 2016