Poetry
In Search of Forty Acres
We don’t sit around talking about it as we once did. Those forty acres. But we still think about it sometimes. Those forty acres. It’s not just painful to sit around talking about it as we once did, those forty acres, it seems useless. But we still think about it sometimes. Those forty acres.
We think about that long boat ride. Living, breathing bodies. Frightened, bewildered souls, Dragged, pushed and packed, Forced from one known world into an unknown hell. We don’t just sit around talking about it as we once did. Those forty acres. But we still think about it sometimes. Those forty acres.
We think about those wailing cries. Moaning eyes and languid limbs that could not hold child to mother. We think about the thunder of the lash and still coil under its lighting flash. Black flesh separating. We don’t just sit around talking about it as we once did. Those forty acres. But we still think about it sometimes. Those forty acres.
We think about the tree that bore the innocent corpse. White robes riding. We think about the “whites only” signs. Chilling eyes shouting: “Move to the back of the bus.” We don’t just sit around talking about it as we once did. Those forty acres. But we still think about it sometimes. Those forty acres. We think about the encyclopedic knowledge of silly trivia needed to vote. We think about headstones keeping vigil over those no medical help would see. We think about the minds and spirits yearning to learn with limited resources. We don’t just sit around talking about it as we once did. Those forty acres. But we still think about it sometimes. Those forty acres.
We think about all the forty acres we’ve labored. We think about all the forty acres we’ve bloomed and fruited. We think about all the forty acres we’ve lost. We think about all those forty acres and then we think: And what about the mule?
