The Ghost of Church Street Hums
The gallows hum my grandfather's hymn low and long as the lineage of loss.
Every rope remembers a name we forgot to imprint in the wind.
My veins vibrate with song; blood buzzing with borrowed curses.
The moon mouths my surname in mockery,silver tongued and sick with sin.
Our ancestors choke in the soil, coughing our crimes like prayers gone bad.
I walk beneath shadows, my spine a rosary of rusted regrets.
My shadow weeps, stitched from screams,a quilt of old betrayals and bone dust.
Time trembles,terrified of our inheritance of hurt and hunger.
The ghost of my father hums hymns of hunger and horror,holy and hideous.
The rope rocks me gently-singing lullabies in the language of lynching.
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