14: Bright

There was a bird; I know I heard

its Good Morning, fractured by the roof

into

an experience scattered. Like death,

wholly unpredictable. Mama, Papa, just like that

this white man's hand crosses my middle like a belt

and I grieve; my back breaks under a strap, reaching for

work: like my family, lies dead. In the field there

is cotton:

the mountain moved every day; every day is growing

back into our midst. If I was not the eldest, still doing this now,

my mind would not be a record playing for my negra youth -

saying our color is such a beautiful rhythm, standing like a giving river,

darkened by mis-use and cruelty; you come hate. If this were my way,

negra would be used all over, needed like salt

to put that handsome flavor in the mouth; like water, the current,

the beat

of my home through this field would sprint free. Negra like me.

Negra like the finest soils.

Negra is: where we meekly plant; the color of the ink of my word; my great

skin;

ebony;

maroon;

darkie! and coon!; glory be!

white-boned strong. Swing away, by god

keep me. I will have this all,

so He say. I do not contend. To want it, I do not.