{"id":36972,"date":"2024-11-22T10:45:31","date_gmt":"2024-11-22T18:45:31","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/test-inside.ewu.edu\/willowspringsmagazine\/?p=36972"},"modified":"2025-02-07T12:13:34","modified_gmt":"2025-02-07T20:13:34","slug":"southern-gothic-for-the-black-boy-and-desecrate-by-amber-mcbride","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/test-inside.ewu.edu\/willowspringsmagazine\/southern-gothic-for-the-black-boy-and-desecrate-by-amber-mcbride\/","title":{"rendered":"“Southern Gothic (For the Black Boy)” and “Desecrate” by Amber McBride"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n
\n
\n\n
\"Issue<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Found in Willow Springs 87<\/em><\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Back to Author Profile<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n

\n\n

“Southern Gothic (For the Black Boy)” and “Desecrate” by Amber McBride<\/h1>\n\n\n\n
<\/div>\n\n\n\n

Our meal begins at a pine table surrounded by finely dressed haunts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The table wears a black cloth, to hide the blood in its veins.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/div>\n\n\n\n

One white man at the head of the table, with a loaded gun passes<\/p>\n\n\n\n

the bread but charred and oozing something vile and ruddy red.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/div>\n\n\n\n

He shoots one of us between the eyes, reloads, and sends the bread back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So, we recoil and try again sitting up straighter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/div>\n\n\n\n

It starts with: we could have been anything, day-weavers or exotic holy food.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We could have been blessed-devoured in riot, and easily reborn.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/div>\n\n\n\n

It starts with a ghost, who thinks it is flesh. This time at a cedar table saying:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I received so many flowers I could no longer smell death on myself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/div>\n\n\n\n

Stage left: enters boy-first name Wolf, who has never heard rain. He swears<\/p>\n\n\n\n

the cypress rain-stick sounds like stars. Which of course mimics rain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/div>\n\n\n\n

The haunt who knows nothing of death thinks that death feels like living.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Which should be inaccurate. Which should be a lie.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/div>\n\n\n\n

The deck is guillotined; the tap dancer moving over the puddle also sounds like stars-<\/p>\n\n\n\n

and rain, batons cracking black heads and tiny heads knocking the floor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/div>\n\n\n\n

Tea appears when it starts raining bodies. When everyone is stuffed which should<\/p>\n\n\n\n

be impossible because food falls through our hazy guts to the floor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We pretend to eat, but keep nothing-so thick-less we float.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So, we float, shuffle seats and begin again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/div>\n\n\n\n
<\/div>\n\n\n\n

Hate is a concept that only love can understand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Which is absurd you don’t need a partner to dance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/div>\n\n\n\n

The black boy haunt at the end of the table has a bullet lodged in his stomach-<\/p>\n\n\n\n

the hole still aches freshly, wine seeps from it rudely.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/div>\n\n\n\n

The man with a gun claims he will shoot anything-dead or alive.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He aims between the eyes and shoots us each again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/div>\n\n\n\n

Stop searching. There is no trail to this grave-death comes<\/p>\n\n\n\n

like vultures promised meat. The crime devoured before it is seen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/div>\n\n\n\n

The bullet in my head cries like love-without control.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Like a corpse decays like laughter-without a care for time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/div>\n\n\n\n\n