by Mara Jebsen
Woke up this morning, the moon wasn't right.
Sharp as a blade, and she slung to the right.
Woke up this morning, the moon wasn't right.
Carolina, I miss you, miss your crackle-whipped pines;
Miss your bread-rising breath, thick-sweet like old times;
And I miss your lying photographs, your freshly buried crimes.
Caroline, when the moon shines I miss you.
Shake loose the yam-dirt where the shadow lays down.
And wake the white girls in the colored gowns,
And wake the cruel and quiet towns,
Where the lace and knife lie mute.
And a long stare loops over miles of road
Faceless and numb as any old moon;
I don't want these dreams of blood and light;
Don't want this hanging in my doorless room.
Carolina. Carolina, stop all that howling,
Its getting too late–its a full, black morning–
You're strong, and you're safe–and you know
I can't fight you. But Carolina, tonight
Let me sleep without you.