A Howling Dust

The soil here is hard in summer
 so I buried my father in a tomb of rocks,
 a plot behind St. Catherine's church
 to lay rest the giilded dream of pitiable men.
 With gold found to the North
 Quartzburg drove out its whores,
 its foreigners and roughnecks.
 They settled this camp.
 The Mexicans often staged
 bull and bear fights near the bar.
 They kept a boy entertained
 when there were no hangings to enjoy.
 The Cantonese flooded the quarries,
 working for less than the Whites.
 My father would curse the Orientals,
 yet came home reeking of opium.
 A group of my friends and I
 left to explore the creek.
 The Chinaman kneeled there,
 gleaning for gold.
 We mocked him and pushed him,
 I prodded him with my knife.
 He gripped his revolver
 and fired in the air.
 The errant bullet
 ricocheted off a stone
 and grazed my leg.
 I ran back bawling
 to the town.
 Mobs
 surround
 the crying Chinaman,
 Father clutching the noose.
 Law
 arrived.
 The sheriff demanded
 that he be jailed and properly tried.
 Gangs amassed
 late at night
 outside the jail.
 Father led,
 rope in hand,
 prey in his cell.
 Smooting lies.
 Tempted with
 tobacco leaves,
 the Chinese
 reached his arm
 through the bars.
 The lynch mob swiftly grabbed
 the gleaner's exposed hand.
 Father wrapped the collar
 aroud his neck.
 The horde yanked on the rope.
 Chinaman dragged and choked,
 his brains dashed upon the wall.
 Soon all the gold mines dried
 but that blood never did.
 Red still stains the jail cell wall.
 Father was never tried,
 none mourn a foreigner,
 but I saw guilt in his eyes.
 With all the riches spent,
 the people left the town
 yet I stayed to dwell here still.
 When Father died of drink
 I did not weep for him.
 I pray the grave unburdens his sins.
 I pray that someone will remain
 to bury me.
 I pray that someone will remain.