By Richard apple – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=25375056
Picture of the Tallahatchie River, where the body of Emmett Till was recovered.
At the End of a Rope, a Dream
(timeframe is 1877)
Once declared free,
—we—
gathered by the river
meant to travel many a soul.
Believing in the possibility of secure passage
even when far from water’s edge.
Mounted in shabby boats, unstable to cradle us
and have sufficient worthiness
to brave all waves.
With agreements for safe equality in crossing
but having only bare feet and empty hands
to carry forward the task.
With faith that yesterday’s promises contained truth
to propelled us even while navigating
tricky, henna-streaked cross currents.
Sneaking stares left and right,
searching for confirmation of freedom so recently unearthed
when shedding our bondage.
Knowing this river’s flow
could have happened before now
but for a dam of blockage diverting it
to private pools filled with our exclusion.
How could such a river ever nurture?
Ever allow a land to flourish?
And yet we know the river manages branches,
with sprawling expanses,
to feed the greened trees of the lower cotton land.
We used to love the trees,
givers of shade and sustenance,
but are now being taught to lower their limbs
to killing purpose with more than gesture.
Providing a stage where the work of provocateurs
can be perpetrated.
Where the terror of supremacy is executed as
the most evil of entertainments.
We still love the trees.
We will always love the trees.
It has just meant that their meaning has altered,
as happens with drawn out murder.
But this new purpose has moved us from reduced,
to postponed,
to cancelled,
to never was.
And once prostrate,
it makes no difference
whether it be supine or prone.
Because the contempt of common hands
is upon us.
So cruel to kind.
—So cruel to kind.
And there are words, never intended to be worn,
which hang,
with weight,
’round our necks.
Shorn of solemn promises,
made with intent,
but ultimately replaced
by up-the-sleeve snickers.
We were all searching for a freedom,
only whispered of,
but never before seen.
A discovery for the worth of the word in the world,
whether spoken or written.
And a hope the beast of yesterday
can be made the wholesome meal of tomorrow.
Strike as hard as you like, the anvil of freedom still lives!
And one day it shall be remembering is enough
when freedom comes ’round again on this rolling earth.
And yet the river knows to flow.
Twelve years after the Civil War, Reconstruction was dismantled. Many of the oppressions, deprivations and terrorist activities steeped on Black people accelerated. Lynching was a special horror in destroying human hopes.