Email Poem

Your IP Address: 216.73.216.98

From Email:	Required Email Address Not Valid.
To Email:	Email Address Not Valid. Required
Subject	Required
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem	The first horn lifts its arm over the dew-lit grass and in the slave quarters there is a rustling – children are bundled into aprons, cornbread and water gourds grabbed, a salt pork breakfast taken. I watch them driven into the vague before-dawn while their mistress sleeps like an ivory toothpick and Massa dreams of asses, rum and slave funk. I cannot fall asleep again. At the second horn, the whip curls across the backs of the laggards – sometimes my sister’s voice, unmistaken, among them. “Oh! pray,” she cries. “Oh! pray!” Those days I lit on my cot, shivering in the early heat, and as the fields unfold to whiteness, and they spill like bees among the fat flowers, I weep. It is not yet daylight.
	Type the characters you see in the picture Required