Cora Lee  Rag bound 'round your head, brown skin dipped in sweat you washed our dishes our clothes ironed starched collars and fancy blouses no Cinderella prince would offer you in your lifetime. Four years old and precocious,  I corrected your grammar, ran unbidden down the path to your house, watched you fry fatback and flatbread, thought it a feast, never dreaming, if offered the platter you might have chosen steak instead; I never saw you sigh at the unjust breeze or the angry hawks circling the thick pines past your house, day's end, sore feet weeping on the graying planks of your porch. Grown, I wanted to toss out my sorrys like a pink veil of flowers--like Judas, to give back the coins, beg forgiveness, undo the nails, dig out the thorns, but you stood in your sister's door a statue, already fading in the twilight eyes as vacant as a barn after the cows have been led out to slaughter. Pris Campbell ©2006 Published by The Dead Mule, Spring Issue 2007 Art: Solitude by Frederick Leighton A site well worth reading is Race In America! Return to Poetry Index II Return to Homepage