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Springtime in the Old South
----a poem for the forgotten
----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.
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
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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