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