Readers: I submitted the following poem to JAXNEXT100, in celebration of Jacksonville’s bicentennial birthday. A winter version may be found on this blog. This is the summer version.
A Mother’s Plea (Or, The Springfield statue speaks)
You.
Down there. Yes,
You.
Will you please help me off
this perch,
and bring my
children with me?
Toss away this old
tome. Let me
trade
my granite throne for a
tattered bedspread
thrown
over summer’s emerald glade.
My children yearn to join
yours, beneath
the August morning
sun. She rises,
as clear as our brother’s
anthem,
as bright as our children’s
minds, lighting
our prodigal city’s
rebirth.
There below, on communal beds of
earth,
no more shall we lift
our heads to exalt
false idols.
We are not
gods, these children
and I; nor trophies to be
won; nor possessions to be
collected. We beg you
unhitch us
from this godless
height.
Let us gather on the
ground, for readings yet
to be written, made sweet by the
sound of our children’s
laughter, as they run
barefoot
in grass-stained britches.
Let us partake of
crackers and grapes,
a young vintage,
untrampled. We
always
have time
for communion.
We will douse and dry
our hands, and I
will ask forgiveness
for sins
long etched
in bronze:
Five score and seven years ago, I believed in a falsehood I did not create. Fear and brutality compelled me. To those twin devils: Get behind me, now.
I’m sorry I was not braver.
Blasted by war and hamstrung by history, my body remains captive, elevated by the angry hands of vengeful men.
They said I was the reason for their treason; the rationale for their bloody rage; subterfuge for disgracing branches of live oaks with unpunished murder.
Blood–let us steal no more!
Won’t you please
melt
down
this breathless
coffin, and set
our spirits
free?
Sculpt a future yet
unshaped
and write a
fresh
new
word.