The moss that swing on the trees of the south still feel the fingertips of slaves that hugged them in the night; desperate to find the direction of the north.
A mother’s swollen breast leaks milk for a child that she hates to love. Masters child.
A young boy’s scars fresh from the lash ooze and run down his back like he does in his dreams.
Away from a friend whose hand was cut off while harvesting sugar cane.
From the blood of a man that trickled down and collected on the soil as a limp, brown body hung from a tree limb; still.
Away from a skin color.
A heritage that bring tears to his mama’s eyes everytime a whip lashes his rebellious back.
How can I feel that?
All of these years later?
The moss of the trees blow and if you listen, you can hear them whisper the secrets of the south.
The south has its secrets too.
For my brothers and my sisters,