Felicia L. Logan

The faded Confederate flag, that hangs
Above the American flag, is just
a tradition in those tiny towns with
rocky dirt paths combed through their frames,
and crumbling buildings mourning change, and time.
For once upon a time, they soared above
the Gods to right their own self-serving laws.
The Unconquerable and Unwavering,
concrete towering over the naïve
and ignorant that bled, sweat and died
under their weight. Awaiting what was to
be forty acres and a mule, a pen
and paper, shelter and safety. A chance
to find the lost ones sold for pennies, in time
to once again be united as one. Only
to find the concrete unwilling to bend,
gathering its hunting dogs, nooses
and whips to search the night for those wingless
eagles attempting flight to the northern
star. The eroded shells of the escaped
told a greater tale than their dialect
could narrate. The protruding scars from whips
and chains, the missing limbs and ears and teeth,
and unmarked graves in mother’s wombs said it
all. The weights rusted, their broken bodies
drifted face-down into the mainstream for
the world to see the uncaged bird begin
to grow wings. Tension mounting upon the
concrete walls that once were taller than the
skies now being looked down upon in shame.
They fall under pressure, leaving thirteen
crossed stars etched into history books and
a tradition in those tiny towns with
rocky dirt paths combed through their frames,
and crumbling buildings mourning change, and time.