My Fathers sit on benches
their flesh counts every plank
the slats leave dents of darkness
deep in their withered flanks.
–
They nod like broken candles
all waxed and burnt profound
they say “It’s understanding
that makes the world go round.”
–
There in those pleated faces
I see the auction block
the chains and slavery’s coffles
the whip and lash and stock.
–
My Fathers speak in voices
that shred my fact and sound
they say “It’s our submission
that makes the world go round.”
–
They used the finest cunning
their naked wits and wiles
the lowly Uncle Tomming
and Aunt Jemima’s smiles.
–
They’ve laughed to shield their crying
then shuffled through their dreams
and stepped ‘n’ fetched a country
to write the blues with screams.
–
I understand their meaning
it could and did derive
from living on the edge of death
They kept my race alive.
-Song for the Old Ones by Maya Angelou
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