sitting in class, reading through a history book
I find myself drowning in handed down university gossip
it seems as if historians and presidents shined lights on our past’s shadows
leaving entire passages whited out
our words washed away
fibrous
blood stained
splattered; stretched ropes remain
formed into nooses once used to release spirit from anything black
dark flesh rots
ripped; torn apart
on the bark of trees bearing negro fruit
the trees limbs so laden with innocent souls that
lifeless toes touch blades of grass on their ascent to heaven
I sit in my chair under the arch created by the hanging tree
and search around looking for messages dropped to the ground
from hands clenched tight together; holding onto their last breath
pain riveting from the neck down to their blood stained coverings
I am listening to the trees’ whispers
uttering
last prayers of the dying
free me
free me
oh heavenly Father
free me from this place
where my skin color has become the measurement of my livelihood
I look around and find spots of blood
remnants left over
from post mortem beatings
not red but purple stains remain
the type of blood that exists only inside the veins of royalty
those of my past’s kings and queens
now reduced to a slave mentality
lifeless bodies hung on trees to catch the summer breeze
left in a way
to teach dem other negros lessons about wanting to be free
that’s what the massa say
well now massa is telling me another story
he teaches democracy
and how it has always existed for the right of human beings
he goes onto say
we will enforce democracy
like
the pilgrim’s thanksgiving on plymouth rock
and stuff it down the throats of anyone not willing to eat our words of subjugation
well
subjected we were
to plantations
tilling mother earth’s creation
until finally
raping her of the opportunity to grow us out of here
here
in
this
foreign country
this
place
we once never knew of
a mind will always revolt unnatural surroundings
what you called disobedience
our ancestors called
survival of the quickest
I turn the page in my history book
and find it blank
my pen starts to write a new history passage
recycled words dropped onto the soil that my ancestors watered with their own
blood; sweat
urine; tears
from bodies hung in the summer breeze
becoming fertilizer for our future
producing Whispers from the trees
