Cross Without a Savior

A candelabra, submerged in a southern swamp,
where punished slaves once disappeared with

alligators, beneath slime and muck, and now hard-
earned votes are invisible, as though thrown into

a dark, watery cage. Life can be full of promises,
yet no indicator of truth, based on our nation’s

confusion, such as when white folks pretend they
always deserve more. The evening begins with

whispers of lilac, rain enough to extinguish all fire.
How falsely then will we witness the burning cross?

Our darker brothers gather in hope, in church—
but when they prophesy, they just make us mad.