1960
My mother wailing over a casket,
uncontrolled arms flailing
as my eleven year old child eyes
recorded the event through tears
tears surrounded by the South
of Jesus on a fan on a hot day.
Old men wiping sweat from the brow
with a handkerchief
creating commotion at the door.
My father’s black friends wanted to pay their respect.
The crowd said no
These old, then young eyes
saw my five foot one hundred pound mother
tear through that crowd of George Wallace old men
like an unrelenting knife of grief itself
that would not be denied
on this day.
on this day.
On this day her wailing grief
suspended Jim Crow
and for a moment
there was an eleven year old boy
who knew what it meant
when his daddy said to shine.
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By David Michael Jackson