When grandpa LeAndrew was kicked by the foreman
then called an uppity, no-account, stupid nigger,
he uppercutted the foreman’s chin,
booted him in the ribs five times
and watched the man writhe and groan
in Mississippi’s red-clay dirt.
My father said, “Poppa didn’t shit off nobody.
Lord help you if you pissed him off.”

That night my father heard cornered prayers,
fierce whisperings between his mother, Elvinia
uncles, Napoleon, Theophilus,
aunts, Cassietta, Johnnie Mae, and Izora.
Grandma Elvinia, passed seven months with Aunt Kalliope,
paced the planked kitchen floor,
sobbed over and over,
“Lord Jesus, they’re gonna kill’im tonight.”

A mob of car lights blasted the windows,
ravenous as snow wolves.
A riot of drunk curses and vile threats
maimed the magnolias and peonies.
An empty gallon jug of bootleg
shattered the window above the sofa.
Bricks and Coca Cola bottles followed,
destroying Grandma Elvinia’s angel figurines.
My father hid under the bed
with Aunt Senovia and Uncle Jefferson.

“Bring your black ass out, LeAndrew,”
the hooded foreman yelled over and over.
“We got something for your nigger ass!”
Slurred double dares took root in night soil,
splattered the clapboard porch,
slammed against the rocking chairs
Grandma Elvinia and my great aunts
sat on when they gossiped, shelled peas,
stitched quilt fragments.

Minutes before the invasion,
two hulking silhouettes
slipped out of the house,
snaked silently through the oaks and pines
under the blonde moonlight.
An owl’s soliloquy urged them to hurry.

Grandpa LeAndrew’s and Great Uncle Napoleon’s
calloused fingers caressed their shotguns
on their laps in the pickup,
Grandpa LeAndrew unblinking in his stillness,
wearing Grandma Elvinia’s lemon-yellow
Sunday dress and veiled hat.