Ethnic Memory
- I feel your pain
- smell the swelter that rises on a
- afternoon in a wooden slave shack
- hear chains in the metal sweat box,
- a human bake oven,
- fueled by the intense heat of a day’s hatred
- shiny backs stinging with salt, blood, and earth under a relentless southern sun
- as Miss Lillie fans herself in a shaded knoll.
- Your back ached,
- deformed by subservience,
- shoulders sloped like some fourth-class non-human,
- as you cut the cane that kept Miss Lillie.
- This was wretchedness
- locusts whistling in merciless highs
- and the humidity of rivers kissing your pores
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