r/OCPoetry•4 yr. ago

Living and Dying on East Hill

Workshop

The Daughters of the Confederacy made much of this hill in 1915.

Here are planted 300 years of sons, daughters, captains, doctors, lawyers.

It encloses also dozens of children who did not reach the age of 10;

I counted them one day—more than 25—

They are kept always beneath rocks bearing various epitaphs,

For of such is the Kingdom of God,

To me they sound sarcastic.

And yet, surely against my will, my feet are planted in it.

Even though Irene couldn’t afford to be buried on the rich side of town,

I know it is the same sodden earth that laid beneath her on her wedding day

And held her harmless feet as she left chapel hall.

And left me the hill in a city I wasn’t born in.

Even as my concerns pale in light of the Atlantic Slave Trade

(There are no black men planted in East Hill’s dirt)

Yet are my feet are buried here.

What is a legacy when it is just dirt?

(What is it to have not even the earth to hold your name?)

Surely against my will, my feet are buried here,

In this earth that holds only bones,

In this earth where there is only geology.

I am to be shaking off this ancestry from my walking shoes

Until I am reunited with the Dogwood Tree.

Posted Jul 11, 2022, 4:14 AM UTC