Make No Mistake
Near cotton fields of asphyxiation,
men hung from high strung branches
Throats slammed shut like freedoms door.
Dangling gods like obscene pendulums. . .
such crimes went un-clocked
and the aorta of ancestry constricts.
Near cotton fields of captivity,
hearts beat to the hymns of Jesus,
and the bloody hands of Motherhood reached
trembling toward an unmerciful sky
like two slabs of cooked mud crying out,
“but the sun of the South is like the sun of Calvary…”
as their children built pine boxes
on a plantation without law.
Make no mistake –
the gruesome truths of unmarked graves
are eternal beneath the soiled, toiled earth of the South.
Near cotton fields of falsehoods,
where the institution of slavery was acceptable,
a white lie was legendary.
Truth was tossed into the wind
for an ungraceful flight
and passionate spirits were caged and silenced.
Seemed New Testament laws were suddenly conditional.
Seemed freedom was no better than a counterfeit dollar bill.
Near cotton fields of contemporary distrust,
old ghosts still gush blood
inside the nightmares of the new
and the hemorrhaging wound of oppression
has not yet healed; No!
Not when white hoods still run rampant through woods,
or Imperial Wizards are running for congress
while the chronic malaise of tomorrows
hangs like a perpetual scream from yesterday
but again –
make no mistake
for the African-American will stand
like steel in the end.
Towering. Elegant. Statuesque.
Taller and quicker
than the fall of that unholy hammer
Make no mistake
about the science of numbers and nominees,
the glorious shores of rectitude.