The Old South. Our Shame.

It must’ve been 80 degrees,

the sky shown pink and orange,

a light breeze gently moved my hair.

A perfect southern evening;

accompanied by the sound of children screaming.

They are deaf to it.

My aunt, uncles and grandparents whom I love so much.

Telling stories of the old days.

The sound of bones cracking as they click their tongues.

How can they not hear it?

A tractor rumbles slowly down the road,

probably on its way to a tobacco field.

The blood of black men greases its wheels.

I turn away from them;

try to block it out.

I take a deep breath;

wanting to exhale the wrongs of the past.

It smells of wildflowers,

sickly sweet.

Rotting flesh too;

the decay of the past.

Scent of the Gallant South.

Our shame.