Untitled piece

I have gone for a pleasant walk,
Among the rolling forests of upstate New York.
I stroll along a moss-softened path,
Carefully sculpted by deer and rabbits,
And come to a majestic clearing
With an ancient oak, and soft grass.
A fire pit stands in the center,
Which sparks a memory,
Of something I’d read, and soon it
Materializes, and:

I am in Pennsylvania
In 1916
On a church ground
That at first glance
Looks holy.
But soon I am part
Of a crowd
And tension crackles
In the air
Like the fire
That’s been lit.
Anger starts to swell
Like a wave
And I soon see
The cause of the hatred:
A proud, healthy
Young black man
Is being dragged
Into the sea of white faces
That has started screaming at him.
His undeniable
Innocence seems
Not to matter
To the white sea
That feels so much
Justification and hatred.
And the crowd
Starts shoving him
Closer and closer
To the flames
Until he is engulfed
Fighting to get out.
But pitchforks stab him
Forcing him back
Into the hateful flames.
He struggles against
The fire and hate
But in the end,
Can do nothing but
Burn
Like a bale of hay.


*This phrase is from an article I read in my civil rights movement class by W.E.B. Du Boise, who edited the Crisis, the NAACP’s journal.