Monday, April 7, 2014

A Hard Day's Song





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Springtime in the Old South

                                                            ----a poem for the forgotten
 

Come see, Come see,
for just a small fee,
            us be, still as Southern trees.
            Sedentary in the noxious breeze,
strange, we are, these descendants
of those who did not flee.


 
           There is no magnolia perfume or
            gallant gents if what you're digging
            is that old pastoral scene.
See, we, remain, because spilled
            blood is kind of like a root, hardier
            than the flower or the leaves.


 
Here its boogeymen and cane
            not cotton that’s broken down
           quarterly. We spit rocks from
           under tongues, from behind teeth
           just waiting on time to rot. So
          here we be, 
        take your best shot.
     then leave.


No one will blame you for hunting,
 me—the spoils, the crop,
fruit ripe for plucking.

 
 
The rain has begun to gather. Leave
me, pretty with rage. Take, my first born
son as souvenir before you go. Home
to where the air is sweet and fresh.


tell those yet too come about magnolia trees
And how no one would believe the scent
is the smell of young, tender, burning flesh.

 
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