38: Born Here

There is nothing more delicate than fresh life, says Mama.

A bird egg is in my hand: spotted, small.

A flower pushes

petals aside, the bloom erupts. The eruption is

a slow giving.

She come through that door like a beast been whipped, them men

behind her; all them footsteps knocking on wood; there I was, so scared

my hand closed its trap on fresh life.

Her arms strung behind her - petals torn off

her head shaved and cut - she bleeds and says

at the shell in my grip, that crushed egg: now you know your power, child

find the strength to open your hand.

Behind her they marched a tar and feather coat.

Mama, that black stick - make it as black they want, she says,

by God I'll wear it,

sure as I was carved in shade; no black as rich as mine be given.

The feather then -

hush now, this a blessing; feather is

a God sign, means angels gone before you, already

took the blow. Out they rushed her.

I followed.

They walked toward the swinging oak, lynch low and old;

Mama floated - how they dragged her.

I wiped yolk on grass - felt like,

fresh life is

a feather perhaps

perhaps a feather

easing

on

down

through

the

sky

My hand wide open, raw pink,

sticky in white,

feather came right to the palm.