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Song for the Old Ones

 

My Fathers sit on benches
their flesh counts every plank
the slats leave dents of darkness
deep in their withered flanks.

They nod like broken candles
   all waxed and burnt profound
   they say “It’s understanding
that makes the world go round.”

There in those pleated faces
   I see the auction block
   the chains and slavery’s coffles
the whip and lash and stock.

My Fathers speak in voices
that shred my fact and sound
they say “It’s our submission
that makes the world go round.”

They used the finest cunning
   their naked wits and wiles
   the lowly Uncle Tomming
and Aunt Jemimas’ smiles.

They’ve laughed to shield their crying
   then shuffled through their dreams and
  stepped ‘n’ fetched a country
to write the blues with screams.

I understand their meaning
   it could and did derive
   from living on the edge of death
They kept my race alive.

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