granny

enslaved labor had long since died on her hands
it's callused carcass lay in dismemberment in her tightened fists

her mouth was like a sour flower, a frown of wilted lips
beaten free from blossoming beauty
by the same fury that pressed her with pretend caresses
in the middle of the night...
back then it was of more importance
to fight in order to keep her man
instead of fighting off his hands

she grew up creamy coffee
picking rows of cotton white
planting fields of tobacco black
living nighmares of negro blues
dreaming futures of more hopeful hues

her momma found it hard to love a girl
who mirrored what she hated most
cutting her with words of self-hatred
watching the wounds scab on her daughter
yet feeling too helpless to end the slaughter

the evidence of her momma's terror
still spoke in whispers on her face
traced in wrinkled streaks of former grace
the skeletal remnants of a spark
lay in the sienna of her eyes
drowned out by tears she feared of shedding

her voice was uneven gravel thrown in pebbles
that skipped across my stream of consciousness
leaving minutes rips upon my eardrums
as sorrow having stolen sound
where wistful song was once abound

she walked with battered body
posture shattered into shards of grief
as bitterness had played the thief
by stealing strength and leaving weakness

I observed her as I walked beside her
stepping cautiously so as not to cut
my feet with fragments of her dreams

and hoped that through a future lens
I wasn’t viewing me