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Time
- Red Hen Press
- Chapter
- Additional Information
27 Time Not too old to feel the bile, that back-breaking anger, that feeling of death in my heart. Not too old to turn on their smiles, transparent thin things, wanting to raise an open palm; to strike. Not too old to watch an ancient one of them lament the encasing of her man, the jutting-bellied cracker, and smile . . . Not too old to count their graves like notches of God’s blessing, to say; “shit, i outlived you, i outlived you.” Not too old to still my tongue, to hum a blue gospel, while my soul sings that old cry of motherlessness. Not too old to dream of blood, the taste of iron on my lips, the swell of power in my breast. Not too old to hear the nightriders, to face the starched sheets of this south, with trembling, with the heart of a child. Not too old, not too old, not too old, not too old. ...