Pretty Polly

Who made the banjo sad & wrong?
Who made the luckless girl & hell bound boy?
Who made the ballad? The one, I mean,
where lovers gallop down mountain brush as though in love—
where hooves break ground to blood earth scent.
Who gave the boy swift words to woo the girl from home,
& the girl too pretty to leave alone? He locks one arm 
beneath her breasts as they ride on—maybe her apron comes 
undone & falls to a ditch of black-eyed susans. Maybe 
she dreams the clouds are so much flour spilt on heaven's table. 

I've run the dark county of the heart this music comes from—but 
I don't know where to hammer-on or to drop a thumb to the
haunted string that sets the story straight: All night Willie's dug 
on Polly's grave with a silver spade & every creek they cross 
makes one last splash. Though flocks of swallows loom—the one 
hung in cedar now will score the girl's last thrill. Tell
me, why do I love this sawmill-tuned melancholy song
& thud of knuckles darkening the banjo face? 
Tell me how to erase the ancient, violent beauty 
in the devil of not loving what we love.