Cynthia Parker

The South
Is like the jagged edge
of emerald-green Glass,
broken
From the neck of a bottle,
Stained with tobacco juice
And edged in red clay.

Pristine-white pillars
Line the porch where belles
In bell-shaped dresses
sit
To sip saccharin-sweet mint-y
Drinks – feigning not to
Spot their brow with one drop

Of the sweat that runs
Like a muddy river down
The broad, muscled back
bent
in hard-labor. Breaking rocks,
digging rows; breaking
hearts, digging graves.

Spanish moss and cypress knees
whisper of mystery and romance;
While dark eyes and darker hearts
Scream
Of hot-red blood spilled
By hate for freedom. How do
We reconcile the differences?