No Man's Land In This Here Hollers Poem by Lisa Wilson

Scrounging up the last few dimes
from his momma's secret wardrobe,
Leon headed out
that cold September morning,
knowing two things.
One, he'd never see his momma again,
not alive anyway,
And two, even if he did see his momma,
she'd just tear a switch off the old willow tree
in their backyard,
and tan his hide
black and blue.


Ain't got no right
in this here Hollers
for a grown man, black or white.

Don't matter if you were alive in the '50s,
you can still see the lynching
like it happened to you yesterday

Ain't got no time
to squawk like Sunday morning's chicken
Just because
you're about to get your neck broken.

Them greens sure do smell good
when you fry 'em up in lard
left over from the pig's feet
your momma stewed for Mr. Perkins,
the only white man who dare set foot
on this here Hollers.

I ain't got no time
for some preacher man telling me
what I should've done
You ain't fought a damn day in your life
for anything other than the paycheck
that comes to you when women in hand-me-down
dresses throw dollars onto your wet plate.

I fought for my country.
I bet you can't say the same.