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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