Switch

i. Praise Song for N***a
Ghost still pace Georgia, hungry
for babies, for husbands, for something

                        to un-open the back.


We know what music accompanies


the mob, the robe, the rope the pickup or the horse, the blade
across our dark root, the fire, the star spinning from a tree branch
    was always


Nigger—Black Nigger—Nigger
Want to read more?
Please login.
New to Narrative? sign up.
It's easy and free.