Country Girl in the City Girl in the Country Girl in the City

For those of you who do not know, I was born and raised in the country and am growing up in the city. Strong roots dig firmly into the rich soil of the Blue Ridge Mountains, as long branches reach out and frame a streetlamp in DC. A lot of my poems reflect this meshing of two worlds.
This first one I wrote upon returning to my home in DC after a trip home to Madison.

As I leave, my senses linger behind, hanging onto their last encounter.
For my eyes, it is the sight of my family, set against the backdrop of beautiful mountains and trees.
For my ears, it is the sweet silence, interrupted only by low whistling country wind or chirping birds.
My nose longs for the smell of the wood stove smoking as it melts off the fresh snow that had fallen on the locust logs within.
My mouth stays behind for the taste of comfort food, like biscuits and sausage gravy from my Nanny's kitchen.
My skin longs to feel that sense of warmth that cuts through the bitter cold of winter and wraps me in a lasting embrace.
My senses continue to indulge in their last impressions, leaving satisfied enough until their next retreat.

This second poem talks about the injustice found in all parts of our country. While I recognize these unfortunate realities more readily in the city, I know they exist in my sleepy little county, as well.

The Alleged

I saw the alleged tonight
He wore a long, dark shadow of oppression across his chest
On his lower half he stepped with freedom wrapped in
colored cellophane, giving off a false and cheapened glow that
lit his rocky path
His kicks were hard-knocked
Tattered, yet binding, restricting forward momentum
but prone to impulsiveness
Institutionalized racism hung on his head like an old hat
Over his eyes he donned shades of despair that hid the
reality of the broken kid inside
He presented the hard shell of a man to the onlooker

His weapon of choice was accepting this as a rite of passage to manhood
(The same weapon used against him, whose residual effects pounded on
a weak and wounded soul)

We handcuff him with miseducation and justification for our actions
We roll him in and lock him behind the bars of our
easy success and leave him with the only promise he’s known: utter failure
We sentence him to rot in our filth and convince him it’s his fault and
the only way there is
We feed him a meal of lies–porridge in the pot hundreds of years old
that’s crawling with maggots and carries the stench of injustice
We force him to urinate in his bedroom
Making him smell his own waste
While we convince him he’s another wasted life
We choose his path and assign him to a life rotting in the pen vs.
Rehabilitation
Stamp him with the life-long label of felon and failure
Destining him to circle back into our hands again and again
Supporting our big business of crime
While we enjoy our habits and lifestyles with the money
we earn from the blood on his back–
Blood that stains the patchwork quilt of peace