Nowadays old Ticey don’t tell us

field niggers nothing. But that night

she come from the Big House

and say to Psyche . . .

Chile, you heard that story

a hundred times. Ain’t no different now,

just ’cause you turned to a woman yourself.

Psyche was the sister I never had.

Why, she pulled me offa trouble

so many times, I thought her

hand had growed to my shoulder!

You still believe the white folks?

That baby weren’t born dead.

Ticey heard it cry. I seen the doctor

carry it off in a basket, but

it weren’t dead. I felt it kick.

The child was born alive!

I know. I felt it.

The veil was snatched from my eyes—

and over the hill I saw

bad times a-coming. Bad times

coming over the hill on mighty horses,

horses snorting as they galloped

through slave cabin and pillared mansion,

horses whinnying as they trampled

everything in their path.

Like a thin black net

the curse settled over the land.

Who were they?

Who were the four people?

Black woman, black man,

white woman, white man.

When the curse came I stood up

to meet it, and it knocked me

to the ground.

My womb dried up,

but the power churned in me.

We best get back to pickin’.

No tellin’ where Jones got off to—

Same place he always “gets off to”

—that clump of timothy at the spring

where he’s tucked his whiskey!