Documentary

Black men dangling,

Burning, rutted like decaying

leaves from magnolia trees.

I am the lash of the parched

fields of cotton and killers.

I am the master of the big house

with the wide pillars, and

lilies higher than dirt.

I’m under the coward’s white

sheet, peeking behind Lincoln’s gawp,

wooden crosses burning cooked pork.

I am the mother swaying like weeping willows

Raging to heaven, raging to the Lord.