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they thought the field was wasting and so they gathered the marker rocks and stones and piled them into a barn they say that the rocks were shaped some of them scratched with triangles and other forms they must have been trying to invent some new language they say the rocks went to build that wall there guarding the manor and some few were used for the state house crops refused to grow i say the stones marked an old tongue and it was called eternity and pointed toward the river i say that after that collection no pillow in the big house dreamed i say that somewhere under here moulders one called alice whose great grandson is old now too and refuses to talk about slavery i say that at the masters table only one plate is set for supper i say no seed can flourish on this ground once planted then forsaken wild berries warm a field of bones bloom how you must i say
curling them around i hold their bodies in obscene embrace thinking of everything but kinship. collards and kale strain against each strange other away from my kissmaking hand and the iron bedpot. the pot is black. the cutting board is black, my hand, and just for a minute the greens roll black under the knife, and the kitchen twists dark on its spine and i taste in my natural appetite the bond of live things everywhere.
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when i watch you wrapped up like garbage sitting, surrounded by the smell of too old potato peels or when i watch you in your old man's shoes with the little toe cut out sitting, waiting for your mind like next week's grocery i say when i watch you you wet brown bag of a woman who used to be the best looking gal in georgia used to be called the Georgia Rose i stand up through your destruction i stand up