They constitute their bodies while if they’ve fair bagged
Their earliest 10-point buck. One holds a shotgun,
Another squats beneath the shot-up sign,
A third stands accompanied by an AR-15.
Three faces smiling, hoisting guns
In front of a bullet-ridden marker:
Was removed from the river.
It is hunters’ hours.
The sign’s jagged holes could slice
A finger. Those students are someone’s sons
Or brothers, not a a large amount of older than
The young Black boy, his body beaten,
Tethered to a 75-pound cotton-gin fan
And thrown into the Tallahatchie.
This is an elderly story, a Southern Gothic.
To deny this boy’s existence with every one other accompanied by then
Deny the marker that says he lived
Breaks me every one time. The camera captures
The night’s black cover, the tall grasses,
The momentary flash
Illuminating their shit-eating grins
And the firearm barrels’ glint—lifetimes
Of getting away accompanied by it.
#Living #Sorrow & Grieving #Social Commentaries #History & Politics #Race & Ethnicity
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