Tangled Roots by Andrew Scotson

I am not a silent poet

Manacles fasten the goods to the floor,
days spent picking cotton,
nights stilled by chains.

The deep song stirs the shed
as they remember a spiritual home,
heart and sinew weep,
cloudy eyed for a land far away.

The year is 2015,
a dreadlocked old lady
remembers the whips and the bloody stripes,
hoping against hope.

She see’s one more black boy
surrounded by cowboys,
life leaking away,
a boot stamps,
a hand gun is waved.

Rap replaces the christian song,
young anger rises
in this ancient people
as once again they plan to break free.

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