Disowned

(Charleston)

 

They welcomed him, with open arms,

their brother in the spirit and the word,

it  is good to have someone of his color here

they thought, and thanked God.

He wanted to come and watch them pray

their hands folded in the lap

eyes closed, heads raised upwards,

the elderly and the young.

Hear them pray for the sick, the unemployed

the powerless, the weak,

in the middle of the week,

hear them sing

grateful and with all their being,

like they always sing in those Hollywood film renditions

of life on the wrong side of this land,

he wanted to feel whether his spirit is still lingering here

because just like him, he has a dream.

He despises the texture of their hair,

hates the dark hue of their skins,

loathes the white in their eyes,

detests the prayers of their native tongues.

He wanted to be their worst nightmare

his world is small, and uncomplicated

with easy words and phrases

he knows the grammar of hatred,

the eloquent figurative speech of superiority,

the rhetoric of the chosen race,

where everything  is neatly packaged

in black and white segments.

In between Biblical verse and prayer

he carefully selects the soon to be death:

one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine:

six women, three men.

He wanted to see how they pray for their daily bread:

with their open Bibles on the lap,

and blood, slowly dripping from the cross.