Karen Corcoran Dabkowski
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Freedom Good woman, my mama was, died tryin fo freedom fo hesself an dat baby on de way but borned me into slavery, so I'se in a homespun apron mos my life; it like a shift, but I'se neked un'erneath, an I goes barefoot till I'se three fetchin water to de fields. Dat's sumpin a chile can do, learn de back should bend an knowin what a blister feel like- feel like fire in de palm, it do. Don' get blood on de bolls we hear. We ain't dyin dat cotton yet- an den dey's laugh. Has five other brother'n sister worked de dirt: Lucius, Labor, Loyal an de girls by de names Suzanne an Lida, but nebber seen dem oncst de war come, nebber got no acres nor a mule an dat's fo sho. Dat were a lie dem fellers tole an spread it on like jam, though dere was many a nigger sorely hit by dat. Lawd, my mama'd tear her hair she see de way we's treated afta. We li'l uns din trust Yankees cause de white folk say dey's meaner'n snakes an iffen dey ketch you, hook you to a plow an drive it straight clean through de shoulders- lawd, we b'leeved it too but mama, she lit out one night, dat belly big as blazes makin fo de north. She wanted her baby borned outside de lash, so she get down: look us in de eye an promise she gwine come back as soon she could, so pray to Jesus she make it, but de oversee, he caught wind an chased her purt near all dat night an into mornin. Dogs be bayin, torches juss like li'l bits o' hell went flyin through dem branches. All us chillen fearin fo our mama out dere- fox in front de hounds- but dey caught up wid her, an dug a pit juss big 'nuff fo her preg'nan belly, an she lay down. Firse, dey beat her widda switch. She moan, an den dey bring de big whip, Cat a-Nine Tail, laid her open neck to knees. We be cryin, hidin faces 'fraid to do a thing an dats when de baby come befo its time. Blue cord wrap aroun her neck, an nobody did nuthin but watch, cause she done move but oncst, an din cry- po li'l hepless thing. Our mama she be gone hesself 'bout halfway through de stripes, an dats why sister borned in de hole, we name her Freedom: she slip by dem, juss like mama say. Mars Rising There is but one war. We are in it ever- the fly buzz and beetle meal, the stench of rotting crops broken from stems along with the stench of men chopped down untimely, blackening under sun. Here is the thing cut short in the unrelenting sorrow of its shortening- here where life has stopped, bacterial life remains. Here there is no pain where once their red and open mouths were mime to death, their vocal chords stay stretched in useless pose; we know the sounds they made. We grieve as they, without a prayer without a word and there are only meatbirds here to sing them home. Hope Is A Birdwing Three crows on a phone pole, tiered and preening, jet set against the unabetting rain as razorcut as pins on paper. The largest one lifts, spreads wings wide open, heads into the mist across the river toward the mountains. Going like a prayer held in the fisted hand of a supplicant holding on to the wish he brings to God and entering into an ether he believes to be .............all ears. Main Page
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