Liberation shouldn't be death, or oil, when business
fists sift through an unwilling countryside. A butcher
wipes the excess of a people's hunger on his apron;
the swath is black, like tar rumbling in the
truck-tank. When I walk Staples Mill (named for the
old plantation and its simpler lifestyle, when
skin-color was economic), I walk against a tide of
surging vehicles;

uncap the growl at a filling station, stare down that
blank eye into the belly of pro rallies: are we all
sliding there? Last night we made love twice,
trickling the gush of our desire over each other, and
it was a more pleasing rain than this. I sit here at
the bottom of my country, whole and unharmed, limited
to slash-and-burn theories of how to better myself in
their

religion, staring up at the cruelty and crying: when
will liberation and love lie down together in
unstained grass? Are 500 faraway deaths no more near
than an ocean of automobiles?

2003/03/30 13:31:15


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