our mothers wrung hell and hardtack from row and boll. fenced others’ gardens with bones of lovers. embarking from Africa in chains reluctant pilgrims stolen by Jehovah’s light planted here the bitter seed of blight and here eternal torches mark the shame of Moloch’s mansions built in slavery’s name. our hungered eyes do see/refuse the […]
learn moreSteam rises over my nose
against this night cold empty room as wide as my throat; eases/flows
river a mocha memory from aunt ora’s kitchen.
She made it in
the big tin percolator and poured the brew into thick
white fist-sized mugs and
put lots of sugar and milk in it for me and
the other kids who loved it better than chocolate
and the neighbor woman used to tell her and us
it wasn’t good for young colored children
to drink. It made you get blacker
and blacker…
