Manufactured and assembled in Africa. Shipped abroad, westbound yet bound in the ruins of former preordained glories. Fields of dreams were fields of cotton, against the contrast of my ever darkening skin.
Red flesh exposed from the lashes my back knew so well and so intimately, as if lip fell upon lip in romantic embrace, yet in this case whip welt against and ripped, we the product of the Atlantic exchange.
What used to be my dark skin revealed a universal linked pink hue, God’s signature on man’s body. So as we uprose and rebelled, we yelled and exclaimed, “skin the master, we are all the same!”
And indeed we were, for God’s signature was deep in him as well. Slowly skinned and hung for our treason, God’s once magnificent canvas became the carcass of the crows. Withered rose petals in fraternity with cotton bolls and between the nexus of life and death, roll Jordan roll was being wept…in song.
© S E U Nx