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Photo by Neli Moody
Freedom Riders
A woman is on the grass, her church hat askew, a cup of water
in one brown hand. Even in black and white, the flames emit
a terrible heat, rising out the crippled Greyhound bus as if
the gates of hell had opened near Anniston, Alabama.
Wisteria has wound itself around the tree, hanging
In purple splendor. Bruised cherries litter the courthouse lawn.
I was ten in Cincinnati, Ohio and these young people
were making out their wills, making their way to New Orleans
“We will not be moved,” they sang as their mothers absently
Looked out kitchen windows and wiped the counters one more time.
Tufts of cotton still cling to thorns. The flag snaps
On the pole.
The magnolias were fat on the branches and the law was rooted so deep
In the institution that the rock throwers, the tire slashers, the thugs with badges,
could not see their own reflections in the windows of that bus. It was the choking
hatred that took their breath away and students fled the cabin into the cracker white
Everyone has their own secret. The pork ribs flame
Over glowing coals.
arms of the Klan. Was this the source of my father’s anger? It sprang from him
in full bloom like a seed nurtured for a long time. Had he seen the strange fruit
of Billie’s song? The protestors bent under the blows, but they did not break.
One cup of water and a long asphalt strip
From here to some kind of freedom.
A woman is on the grass, her church hat askew, a cup of water
in one brown hand. Even in black and white, the flames emit
a terrible heat, rising out the crippled Greyhound bus as if
the gates of hell had opened near Anniston, Alabama.
Wisteria has wound itself around the tree, hanging
In purple splendor. Bruised cherries litter the courthouse lawn.
I was ten in Cincinnati, Ohio and these young people
were making out their wills, making their way to New Orleans
“We will not be moved,” they sang as their mothers absently
Looked out kitchen windows and wiped the counters one more time.
Tufts of cotton still cling to thorns. The flag snaps
On the pole.
The magnolias were fat on the branches and the law was rooted so deep
In the institution that the rock throwers, the tire slashers, the thugs with badges,
could not see their own reflections in the windows of that bus. It was the choking
hatred that took their breath away and students fled the cabin into the cracker white
Everyone has their own secret. The pork ribs flame
Over glowing coals.
arms of the Klan. Was this the source of my father’s anger? It sprang from him
in full bloom like a seed nurtured for a long time. Had he seen the strange fruit
of Billie’s song? The protestors bent under the blows, but they did not break.
One cup of water and a long asphalt strip
From here to some kind of freedom.