Loretta from Birthmarks by Bambara
Tracklist
| 10. | Loretta | 4:21 |
Lyrics
“Jake Saint lived his life like his namesake,” His wife, Mae, eulogized with a laugh. After the wake, she pried open his suitcase. Found a knife and a stash of women’s photographs—Typists with their lipstick kissed off. Fingers and thumbs, like guns, pressed to their temples. Said to her daughter, Loretta, “If there’s anything you’ll miss, grab it.” Hit a storm going towards Marietta. High beams on the sleet made sheets of TV static like night signed off till the morning broadcast. Mae said, “You’re gonna stay a while in your uncle’s attic.”
The basket by the cot made her think of catching pink petals as they fell to the grass.
She scanned the town from the small round window. Found the cherry blossom by the Laundromat and through the naked limbs she saw the church steeple. Felt like God was peeking through the attic peephole.
That night she heard a hiss. A low voice whispering. Felt the thrill she gets when the highway dips. Pinpricks of mist on her sunburned skin. Even with her jaw clenched,
His words shaped her lips. Saying, “Lift you voice to me with the noise of sin. Your mouth was made for worshiping.”
She joined the choir and sang staring at a martyr’s painting—flayed and swathed in the flag of his skin. One day, a boy drew her gaze to the stage as he kissed a twisting snake, all mad and rattling. Saying, “Sing His praise, for I ain’t crazed by no fever. You see, they got no taste for a true believer.”
That Fall, she spent her nights with the boy at the drive-in or lost in the fog of the woods. When she told him she could hear God’s voice, he said, “Loretta, you know better. This ain’t Hollywood. The silver screen’s been leaking into your thinking.” And she kissed him hard to keep the voice from screaming. She said, “I told my secret. You’re next.” His smile screwed up tight like a wince. “Truth is I keep my rattlers toothless. They have a hard time biting with their fangs missing. Now listen, I’m still one of God’s children, but with pops locked up it’s tough to make a living.”
One night, through snow-covered lashes, he looked at her with a sudden sadness and said, “Let’s enjoy this season. Come spring, I’m leaving. Alone.” She cried when she saw a flock of birds returning home. They kissed goodbye, and he climbed in his truck.
She plucked pink petals from his hair as the engine started up.
He said, “I’ll find you in the next life.”
Soon, Her lips pulled back to whisper, “Child, there’s a lesson in this. Forget the boy, prove your love to me.” She disappeared in the evergreens. Next day, Mae searched the woods with her bother. And past the creek, under canopy cover, where a boulder loomed with its ancient wound, Loretta lay in Azalea blooms. The sun cut through the shade and brought a glow to her face, igniting the violet shine of her open eyes. Her neck, a mess of snakebites and flies.
The morning gazette read, “Cleopatra of Marietta: The tragic death of choirgirl, Loretta.
Her voice will live on in us forever.”
