Glass jars, each filled with a different color of dirt.
hallowed ground,
the dirt of the killing places
beige, black, brown, grey and red dirt.
I stand.
and …I am not able to say anything.
I imagine
their ancestral home lands, the soils of fertile rich other places,
of coffee, of cinnamon, of nutmeg, of ruby red peppers and spice,
I stand.
and …I am not able to say anything.
I look again, I see the shades of our past, the shades of our truth,
I see the shades of America,
I see …
my reflection in the glass.
I read the name and the date and the place.
I stand.
and…I am not able to say anything.
The jars illuminate.
Our focused attention
on the horrors inflicted on bodies of innocent men,
men guilty
of being a shade of color darker,
men guilty
of being the object of
our greatest affliction
to inflict unconscionable pain and suffering on
another human being,
men guilty of being
of these events, of these places, of these crimes against them
that will always remind
us of what America was built on,
the backs, the arms, the legs, the festering wounds,
the shackled ankles and wrists,
the cracked skulls,
the broken souls,
and the shallow graves of the stolen people.
I stand and…
I am not able to say anything.
I walk, up the memorial path along the sacred ground,
I walk,
under the hanging brown rusted edifice,
I walk slow.
looking up to see the place engraved in block letters,
Montgomery Alabama,
Clarke Mississippi,
Cooke Texas,
Jenkins Georgia.
places hanging above me.
hanging there to remind me of those that died.
I stop, I see, I breathe, my heart skips a beat
I am again standing
a witness
of a history that cuts deep into my ability to say anything.
I am still.
I am quiet.
I am here.
I am overcome with the numbing sensation of this horrible truth.
and…I am not able to say anything.
