Turn Me Loose

The Unghosting of Medgar Evers

Frank Walker

• Publisher: University of Georgia Press
• Year: 2013
• ISBN:
  9780820345864
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: American Poetry
• Index: Literature

Around the void left by the murder of Medgar Evers in 1963, the poems in this collection speak, unleashing the strong emotions both before and after the moment of assassination. Poems take on the voices of Evers's widow, Myrlie; his brother, Charles; his assassin, Byron De La Beckwith; and each of De La Beckwith's two wives. Except for the book's title,"Turn me loose," which were his final words, Evers remains in this collection silent. Yet the poems accumulate facets of the love and hate with which others saw this man, unghosting him in a way that only imagination makes possible.

PART I
Dixie Suite

WHAT KILLS ME

Myrlie Evers

When people talk about the movement

as if it started in ’64, it erases every

body who vanished on the way home

from work or school and is still listed

as missing. It erases the pile of recovered

bodies—some burnt, shot, dismembered,

some beaten just beyond recognition.

It mutes every unsung voice in Mississippi

that dared to speak up—fully understanding

the consequences. When people talk

about the movement as if it started in ’64,

it erases his entire life’s work.

It means he lived and died for nothing.

And that’s worse than killing him again.

AMBIGUITY OVER THE CONFEDERATE FLAG

In the old south we would sit on the veranda	life was full of work from sunup to sundown
look out over the horizon at	nothing but fields of cotton
the young who happily played behind	children tried to pick their own weight
while their mothers sang rapturous spirituals	by age 13 filled 500 lb sacks and lived the blues
those were good ol’ days not having to use the whip was more civilized	for plantation owners sharecropping and extending debt was almost more profitable

than slavery

ROTTEN FRUIT

Byron De La Beckwith

I.

I fish for pleasure and to relax.

It’s the best way

to sort out details of a plan

that needs flawless execution.

Every useful thing I know

I learned sitting in the bottom

of a boat across from my granddaddy

in one of Mississippi’s finest

fishing holes. How to

pick out the best spot. How to

get there early. How to lay

low, be patient and wait.

II.

Watching your cork disappear

in the water, bob back up and run

is as thrilling as sneaking your hand

up under a pretty girl’s skirt.

They all put up a lil’ fight, at first

but sooner or later a lucky man

will get his hands on a cat;

a patient man, inside a big wide mouth.

There’s something about the thought

of a wet body, flapping about

and gasping for breath

that gives me chills, even now.

III.

Sometimes we’d just sit and smoke,

swim in some ice cold beers,

enjoy the sound of no women around

or shoot at ghosts if fish weren’t biting.

Sometimes we’d get drunk and argue

for hours about who would win

in a fair fight between his nigger, jack,

and that nigger, joe louis.

IV.

He rode me hard for bragging

about catching the big one,

but I know he bragged even harder

about teaching me how to fish.

Niggers are proof that
Indians fucked buffalo.

—ANONYMOUS

HUMOR ME

Byron De La Beckwith

I was raised with the word nigger

in my mouth. In this part of the south

it is considered our silver spoon.

It practically lived in every good joke

I heard growing up in Mississippi.

The only other good ones were about sex.

But I’ve seen bad jokes about niggers and sex

kick all the power of whiskey right off

the front porch, turn it into something so mean,

somebody would have to get smacked around

to stir that power back up again. Sometimes

it was a dog too friendly for drunks.

Sometimes it was a girlfriend or a wife

who wandered grinning into our man-talk

and snickered at all the wrong parts.

If there weren’t no women or dogs around,

us men would pile into a truck and ride off towards

the coon side of town, looking for something funny.

You can never turn that word
around and make it cool….
It’s not a word of love.

—CHUCK D

THE N-WORD

Charles Evers

Hearing that word launched

from the back of any throat

brings back the smell

of German shepherd breath

of fresh gasoline

and sulfur air

of fear—both ours and theirs.

I hear nine brave children

walking a gauntlet of hate in Little Rock

and four innocent little girls

lifted up to heaven too soon.

Instead of a rebel yell

I hear a rifle bark.

Instead of a whiskey-soaked yee haw

I hear a window break

and children sobbing for a father

face down in a pool of blood.

I hear all my faith collapse

on the wings of a woman’s scream.

I can’t hear anything less

and absolutely nothing funny.

Pastoral scene of the gallant south …

—ABEL ...