The blue wildflowers. The gulf a rare blue.
The gulf isn’t blue, but see how pretty I want to make it
pretty. It was ugly then. How long it took. Dangerous.
That’s it. How much was many were kept back for so long.
I should know. I know. I am a descendant of those
who toiled in quiet like me. And know how to keep my rage
behind my back like a truck’s load too wide for the lane.
I understand . . . I always thought believed it was more work
they wanted from us, those “masters of severance,” lazy
bastards. Now, I know they feared Fearing what might be
loosed upon them. All the ragged horse tenders.
All the dust-bedraggled black skins, too proud to bow
and when they did didn’t mean it. I ought to know. I’m smiling
now in your face because a freewoman bides her time.
Doesn’t readily show you her hand. . . .
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