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.
