Bent
beside the broken coals,
she sucks a stubby
gum-clenched pipe,
out since sunset.
Thick garters
strap the gauzy stockings
just below
the feed sack hem,
flowering over
seven petticoats.
Unlettering
spectacles, far down
her boneless nose,
peer through
the pulsing glow
of the kerosene,
as she recites
the catalog
of heaven’s wonders.
Forgetful queen
of all tobacco tins
jammed with random
pins and buttons,
she does not hear
the trees
rake
the thin shingles.
Smoke seeps
from the ceiling,
and another scent,
compound of age and weariness,
auras her skin,
worn down to suppleness
by the pull
of generations
on those flagging teats.
This Black
waits
for only one
emancipation.
By Robert Weston
Robert Weston is a native of Charleston, SC, longtime resident of northern California and now lives with his wife Joy on Anna Maria Island, Florida. He has six children. After a career in management training and international human resources for global high tech companies, he now gets to write and look for an audience for his creative work of a lifetime. He is also a longtime practitioner of holistic healing and health and is currently very active in a pioneering body/mind modality called Neural Somatic Integration. He is also active in NAMI, a group that exists to inform and support families dealing with mental illness. Robert occasionally teaches classes in International Human Resources for business schools and a class on the brain for adult learners. His e-mail address: Robert Weston