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.
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