Slavery Poem by David Johnson

I place four lit candles in four corners in one room.
I place two bent knees on two floor boards,
with two hands puzzled together clenched tighter and tighter
to try and lessen sins
passed down to me
where tree branches descend.

In one corner slaves beaten down
black and blue on black skin.
The candle light comes in, like white and yellow cloth
to help warm black cold souls wrapping limbs tight bracing
broken bones.

This is home.

Three slaves to one corner with one song.
In the other corner rats spread disease and fleas
but, at least they're free.

The other two corners hold shackles and chains
waiting on flesh to claim;
black cattle with black names.

Tree roots tickle the chamber's roof from above,
hoping from slaves laughter would break out.
Below, air thick with sweat, stench and smoke,
sometimes a forced song sometimes a forced joke.

A hymn started as a hum
then, a whip would kiss the air
dividing thick plumes of smoke
to find yellow and white candle light painting apricot colors on black backs..

Blood red, bruises black and blue on backs black.
Salted red drops, colors red and clear smear finger-painting with blood and tears.

Bodies are dust and blood painted,
built on arched backs bent raw and weighted.

White laughs, white lies with brown knotted rope.
Black souls eager to climb higher to spring from narrow tightened throats.

The black man's empty stare,
as flat soled feet lift high from brown dusty ground to light weightless air.

Souls burst from swollen parted lips, echo off of moss covered
walls to sprint up black shadowed stairs tall.
To the door way to take flight,
where the black man sheds black colored skin
finding black sky
in the black colored night.