I was sixteen the year Faulkner died
and dressed in black for a month
to mourn his passing.
My mama said,
"Girl, you got to be crazy,
wearing black in this God-awful Georgia heat."
Now my mama had a way with words,
short and to the point,
Unlike Faulkner,
who lingered and made his last;
but Mama never had time to read,
so I read for both of us
and found in Faulkner a reason
for being--
both hers and mine.
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"Mourning Faulkner"... Intriguing, exoteric... symbolistic, reverent and esoteric.
In admiration,
Andre Emmanuel Bendavi ben-YEHU
Cheers,
Dan