I read about a man who wanted to trade his savings,
some melons, and a piano built by his enslaved relatives,
for a plot of land.
I imagine the instrument, an upright grand, rich brown
like a Brazil nut’s shell, voice warm and inviting
as the host of a gentleman’s club
whose members are served from flowing fountains of gin,
and sashaying women whose company come free.
I imagine it sitting on the right hand side
of the 16th Street Baptist Church
during the first Sunday service since the bombing,
a group of women wearing white dresses and yellow roses
comes forward as a voice shouts: We Shall Over Come!