The calculation is simple enough;
he comes for you when you least expect,
when you are minding your own business
in the middle of a pecan grove, shells
at your feet, the sweet rot of overripe
fruit, birds feasting all about, and
suddenly, like light, he rests on you
and you think that all this dirt
you feel, all the lies you have told,
all the ways your body has gone,
breaking bones, pressing against
a woman harder than she wants it—
all that filth will fall away
if you wade out into the water;
and Jesus is the white man
at the end of the road where
the two roads cross; and he is
clean as anyone who has a bath
made for him every afternoon
at 3 o’clock with bath salts,
with a white towel, soft from
a well-water scrub. And he talks
to you, tells you to come follow,
and you follow because he has
you bound, tied up. And you work
for him, pick cotton for him,
plow the land for him, plant
seed for him, scare away crows
for him, and he promises you
that you won’t die, never die,
that you will always be whole
like this, that he will always feed
you, always give you a suit of clothes,
always anoint you with holy oil
in the sanctuary, and your cup
runneth over, and over, and over,
and all you have to do is pick
his cotton, clear his land, make
him shine. Eventually, you do
the calculation and you figure
two oughts are oughts, and you
figure that Jesus should be satisfied
now, that your bones are hurting
deep down now, that the clothes
you are wearing are worn out,
that heaven forever doesn’t look
like a good idea. A pot of liquor,
some rot gut, and you see the way
the world will end, and dying
is like sleeping, but better because
you don’t know; that is when you
curse Jesus and watch how his neck
pimples and turns all red, how he loses
his soft in his throat, and how
when he calls your name, it cuts
across the sky like lightning—
so you run, like any sensible nigger
will run, looking for the North Star,
leaving this piss-ass, God-forsaken
state behind, so you can get some rest.