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As I peered down at the murky Distance beneath, a stalactite Scratched my shoulder. She looked to belong there, Translucent in her birth suit, A callous icepick in drag. I gagged on the still water’s Stench, hoping for a mirror To spy on the carp below. Strange sounds came from the Depths filling me with fright, A white sheet covered my head. My memories of life before The well emphasized My pledged share of crops. Looking down at turmoil, A witches brew, a caucus of Black children as phantoms. What does the mob spawn? Down there in the shadows? Can they sell me again? My story is growing faint, It gnaws like a cancer In line to pay the poll tax. The terror of being thinned Out is one way to judge The faces of injustice. A leprosy of the soul plagues Me, this scurrilous writ of right To cultivate cotton and tobacco. Two small visages glare up, The girl has dry hair, The boy wears suspenders. Terrible myths surround The tales of cherubim Cursing the walls of mold. I look down again at The single bucket, its clamor Pealing against the bricks. There is a dizziness about Staring into an infinite liquid, Call it vertiginous space. Consider the opposite, Gazing up at me, seeing And feeling raindrops. Inside this well lurk a Paradox and an illusion, Duplicitous evils. Seeing the faces at the Bottom is an illusion, That they exist is paradoxical. Black isn’t black, but white Isn’t white, another paradox, Test them for translucence. In this day we are challenged To be just, to hold high Our heads, never to abort. The penultimate favor Is of forgetfulness, of Ignorance, of mercy. The only face left is That of the white sheet Covered in dust and sweat. © Lewis Bosworth,,2015
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Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 10:00 PM UTC
Faces at the Bottom of the Well
As I peered down at the murky Distance beneath, a stalactite Scratched my shoulder. She looked to belong there, Translucent in her birth suit, A callous icepick in drag. I gagged on the still water’s Stench, hoping for a mirror To spy on the carp below. Strange sounds came from the Depths filling me with fright, A white sheet covered my head. My memories of life before The well emphasized My pledged share of crops. Looking down at turmoil, A witches brew, a caucus of Black children as phantoms. What does the mob spawn? Down there in the shadows? Can they sell me again? My story is growing faint, It gnaws like a cancer In line to pay the poll tax. The terror of being thinned Out is one way to judge The faces of injustice. A leprosy of the soul plagues Me, this scurrilous writ of right To cultivate cotton and tobacco. Two small visages glare up, The girl has dry hair, The boy wears suspenders. Terrible myths surround The tales of cherubim Cursing the walls of mold. I look down again at The single bucket, its clamor Pealing against the bricks. There is a dizziness about Staring into an infinite liquid, Call it vertiginous space. Consider the opposite, Gazing up at me, seeing And feeling raindrops. Inside this well lurk a Paradox and an illusion, Duplicitous evils. Seeing the faces at the Bottom is an illusion, That they exist is paradoxical. Black isn’t black, but white Isn’t white, another paradox, Test them for translucence. In this day we are challenged To be just, to hold high Our heads, never to abort. The penultimate favor Is of forgetfulness, of Ignorance, of mercy. The only face left is That of the white sheet Covered in dust and sweat. © Lewis Bosworth,,2015
lewis-bosworth
Written by
lewis-bosworth
Madison, WI USA
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 10:00 PM UTC
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