Makin’ Do (Part III)
A Collaborative Series With walkerjo lee
we waitin’
Massa say, “put on ya best.
Got folks comin’ by at the
market. I’m tryin’ to
get rid-a-y’all. Need me some
new hands.”
I sit, far away from my wife,
my younguns, her sister, her younguns…
they all lookin’ happy like
this some sorta ball.
we bein’ sold. no say in the
matter. no need to even try.
I am a body. a host for work
that doesn’t feed my home.
I don’t wanna go, but I gotsta.
Sonny, put up a fight last week.
Massa come with his men,
beat that boy like he
wasn’t someone’s child.
watched him flinch,
flail, then quake.
walked off with his whip
in hand, darin’ any of us
to do the same. then, he
told his big man to hang’em
from a tree.
we watched that boy
die again, every bit of
us dyin’ right along wit’em.
fear of forgiveness
forgivin’ is too much
what god allowin’ this?
wrapped my boy in soiled linens
won’t come clean
when boilin’
took his body down
cut him from his rope
like wild vines,
holdin’ his pieces togetha
his rope, blood soaked
my blood!
my blood, not bleedin’ no more
how i sit here like a man?
we waitin’
done up, ash free
teeth cleaned
male heirs gone on
forced out they skin
like evil done up
we waitin’
massa say, massa say..
i put dirt on my boy
dress all up, like we the wrong
gettin’ sold and sold
dyin’ right along wit’em
darin’ us, to more’n work
more’n carin’ for our kin
darin’ us to be more’n human
family playin’, lookin’ the part
sittin’ here, out of tears
we gon’ leave here
different chains, behind diff wagons
different places, across the south
we gon’ leave here
like we got no roots
‘put on ya best…’
collectin’ new kin, ev’ plantation
losin’ pieces of me
discarded patches, never collected.
hang my boy from a tree,
rope holdin’ his pieces togetha
soiled linen won’t boil clean
my male heirs gone on
woman folk keep eyes up
a strong I cain’t muster
girl child to one day be ‘massa say’, queen
“my best” done already left me
breakin’ way,
need this mad, to get through
my next life
in the fields.
we waitin’,
more takin’ of our will.
Massa call my name, say,
“Junior! Come on up!”
I shuffle ova to him.
he callin’ out what I do
how I do,
what I will do if you tell me.
I stand there lookin’
incomplete,
fresh meat for the takin’.
an hour passes,
they know my ingredients,
what I’m made of,
what I’m not…
SOLD!
to the new Massa with
whips ready fo’
the death still fresh
on my face.
