Caroline

It's the bruise
with which, she speaks
that bothers me most.

This morning, like every
morning,

she watches
from her
gilded coffin settled
on the night-stand;

remember us,
her stare yells,
remember us;

don't forget
how painful was the mandate
of our expulsion;

daughter of my daughter's daughter

listen to the wind's silence;
no longer can you hear
shouts of warriors echo
across our lands

our voices have been
reduced
to wails of orphaned
infants;

The peach groves
and march of Dixie
are more red now,

our blood has dried
on the soles of their feet.

My lids grieve --

dear mother
of my many mothers

I feel your whisper
penning across
my skin --

how I wish
to have known you.