the splintering,

aching oak of the witness

stand pierces his unbelted

khaki pants.

he bears witness to a crime

only punishable in the land

untilled by whitney’s gin.

the stare of twelve

white men burns

his smooth temple,

wishing to replace his cross

with barbed wire,

the cold marble floor

with the tallahatchie

The ebony hand of God

points to the bald-headed man

across the stand of injustice

a verdict rendered centuries

before that gavel’s bang,

when the white lion breached

the fertile ground of a stolen land.

an acquittal known to all

whose yard was laced

with a white picket fence and whose

houses were built

on a dream deferred.

their stares

speak a thousand words,

not one of which is

guilty.