Once A Black Southern Woman

and as black as any southern woman was it not the hard ships we all endured southern wood piles holding more than the wood inside our souls before even cotton had such a white sunny face they being some, one to many and yellow always running in and out of ours. our children even then, being halved forced too watch, while their momma. on her hands and knees long pine floors wrapped around some flag, open in the front, and a pale wormy flaccid being always. momma, always clenching her dark chocolate hands knuckles as white snow the south behind him looking on and knowing their future with him pasted firmly, into mine. hardness always in my soul, many were the dark bloods, red roses, valleys filled. pink noses once as abundant as rabbits now as scarce as the creamy milk men, burning off the fields for some southern man, I can no longer recall, being unwilling.