Though I do not know her well, I remember
a modern women--
where she sat,
her back facing me
with her legs folded to her side,
and her dress pulled against her hips,
stretching across her sagging curves.
She sat in a field,
the grass swaying
and praising the white plantation home
standing in front of her looming, lonely,
and casting a shadow upon her face.
But she tells me she can see the cotton around her,
straight like bars
with skin hanging off the thorns,
and the ghosts trudging past her,
their backs bent and torn,
their skin leathered.
I can hear the wind whispering.
She tells me the wind is an eternal thread
weaving fibers of time from one end to another.
She says she can hear the wind carrying
soft prayers, soft pleas
sharp snaps, creaking branches,
If I could see her face,
I know I would see,
a woman haunted
by where she sat.
Written from “A Distant View"