blood on my hands
 
amidst the tobacco fields and railroads
she must have been beautiful
dress swaying wealthy in the wind
swept up by a young man in love
as the black-folk worked on behind them
 
he must have felt noble dropping to one
knee and begging for her hand amongst
the oak’s branches grinning past sunset
and the house where uncle raped the dark
girl whose heavy breasts fed their babes
 
wandering arm-in-arm through tobacco
fields they must have felt so free
moonlight painting dark and light
the same under white bonnets and wilted
yellow leaves quivering with laughter
 
he must have been terrified swathed
in grey and pallor marching to battle
for the glory of the south
in the name of his father his sons
and the white ghosts haunting the fields
 
weeping with willowed sisters
she turned the black earth in the midday
heat and piled it atop the maple caskets
of dead men tattered gray blood
and blue by iron balls and black powder
 
she must have been relieved to pass worn
papers into nervous black hands
with a kiss of goodbye and good-luck
and a promise of their own fertile plot
if they’d stay to harvest fall’s tobacco.


Next Page>>>