Ann Arbor Review
INSIDE THIS ISSUE:
Memories are like pieces of cotton
Clinging to a twig.
Aggravated images that will move
In a carbon sky, above the Capitol
Strips of blood stripes and bruise blue surround stars
As turpentine bathed coffins of former slaves
Lay in graves under summer sod
They saw the great day.
Their masks I wear; their many faces
Split apart into red, white, and black persons
Fertile land speaks of their indefatigable dreams
Under a one eyed moon--a bad sign
That follows from afar and will not leave me alone
THE GOSPEL OF GRASS
Milledgeville, Georgia early 1860s
Hide your words under the bed of your tongue. She was your mother
and my property--son. You're eight and too old for coddling. Work
hard for me now and upon my death, I will set you free and give you
forty acres and a mule.
I could pass for a younger you. What good is grass when I walk down
the street. I am an ass tied to a piece of lumber, waiting in line to eat
like all the other coloreds.
[Walking away from the auction block,
in the distance, he thought he heard someone call his name. It was
his mother's last cry, and in his memory it remained.]
Serena M. Wilcox, Roswell, Georgia
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