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The Rope
They put a noose in me—a knot, a nook for a neck to go through. Not just any neck, but almost any neck of the woods: north and south, west and east. Not just one race, though one race more than others; not just one supposèd crime, though rapists sell more papers than kidnappers, union organizers, seditionists, or cattle thieves. Not just men, though mostly men. I have held the breath of women, too, and children, whose necks are supple, who struggle more, who twitch the longest, because they harbor hope. I nick the quick right out of ’em. I try to do it swiftly, and I can, if the knot’s made fast. Sometimes they’re dead—burned, bullet-pricked, beaten to death with shovels or with bricks— before they get to where I’ve been uncoiled: a cedar, a bridge, a telephone pole. Sometimes a crowd takes strands of me for souvenirs. In another life of rope, I bound saints to the stake. Twine wasn’t made for this. I should be baling hay. I’d rather pull a bucket from a well, haul a rowboat to a dock, give an acrobat a path across the air. That’s a kinder life for a piece of string. I’d like to rig a mast up, and hear the sailors sing. Take me from this limb, or if you keep me here, tie me to an old tire, and let the children swing.
Melissa Range
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:hi:
RL
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