Lynching and Burning

Men lean toward the wood.
Hoods crease
Unitl they find people
Where there used to be hoods.
Instead of a story,
The whole thing becomes a scream
then time, place, far
late in the country,
alone,
an old man's farm.
Children we used to call charcoal,
Now they smell that way - deliberately,
And the mood stares at smike like iced tea.

Daughter,
Once there was a place we called the earth.
People lived there. Now we live there...

by Primus St. John