Part 1

GROWING UP AS A SLAVE

She's running,

weaving through tall trees that are too skinny to hide

back exposed to the piercing gaze of the wind

slicing invisible whips against the welts forever tattooed on her skin

warm liquid oozes out of each one,

leaving a criminating pattern on the green grass she steps on

bruised hands—a gift of a lifetime of labor—

makes rough contact to long sticks of wood she was never able to meet before

pass the line.

Your running

feet molding with the muddy ground

releasing the pressure building within each limb

as you try to keep pace with the hounds,

Master and his sons riding horseback.

Why waste a perfectly new pair of boots,

on a nigger that is as good as dead anyway?

The smell of apples blooming in the trees

a distance away from you

is loud, floating underneath your nostrils

tickling the mucous membrane stored inside .

Pink flowers burst open

surrounding the carmine, luscious fruit

against the leave

colors contrasting.

The sounds of waves clashing against solid Earth

exposed

on the surface

tasting death, collapsing effortlessly

particles separating from the larger body

those who are brave enough to break the chain find their own lane

of being pure and untouchable

pooling in drops on top of hard ragged rocks

symbols falling on repeat.

Your skin looks like hers

but you're different, Master says

handing you a gun,

to keep them niggers in line.

Moving blindly,

you leave behind flowers; 

its alluring fragrance stomped out by waving rugs.

Fresh fruit;

the dream f how it tasted is replacing with the knowing that you will never get it

Waves;

falling dangerously and rebelliously.

You stand there in front of a wall

that you've never seen or known

but you can't deny that introductions were never made.

Hard exterior of mixed sediment;

grainy;

of no particular shape'

dissolving on your warm brittle tongue;

crumbling by contact.

Deep inside,

within the memories of someone else telling you to spit it out.

Drool adds itself to the essence,

gliding back,

filling in the gap or your throat.

Your reflexes say to help it down,

no hesitation.

You lift the gun

passing their test—

don't mistake the gleam in their eyes for pride.

Fingers curl around the metal hook of the gun.

The sound cuts through the sky like a knife

silencing the barking, leaving behind ghosts of whimpers

and the wind carries her last gasps of air

that has been surgically removed from her chest

and placed into your hands as some type of medal.

The falling body resembles yours for a split second.

Thump, body numb,

the grass covering her in respect

and grief.