Syd Shaw
fell from the gallows into parched earth
and did not rest what new torment
a mass grave a hundred cracked shells
cast away forgotten by the tide
were saved from our exile unearthed
by younger hands reburied with markers
damp and blessed soil fire-licked roots,
trees too stunted to hold noose home
stolen from our nest after a hundred years
we traveled long in leather burlap velvet
unearthed for eyes to see and hands to hold
unmarrowed by thousands hungry eyes
exactly three hundred years from the fall
returned to rest on a farm not our own
no more museums sideshows unartful bones
receive no funeral no living left to mourn
speak when no one is left to speak
or else the headstone speaks for us
burn me or hang me I will stand in truth
***
Syd Shaw studied poetry at Northwestern University. She has previously been published in Snapdragon Journal, The Nearness Project, (Her)oics, and The London Reader. She lives in California.