Tree branches bow their heads

to the noosed memories of
those ripe southern fruits
Nina sang about.

Dog's teeth broke through
the dam of skin, releasing
streams of blood that sank so
deep into the concrete
even the fire hoses couldn't wash them out.

The balcony of the Lorraine Motel
still stands hush as a mountain
from where you can see the promised land
shining bright and hallowed,
where you can hear the
echoes of freedom.

Beneath the swallowing cacophony
of the city,
a mother's cry stained
the air with grief.
Her son faded away in her arms,
scarring the sidewalk red.

Where I've been,
memories manifest into
a history of toil.
Each leaving its mark,
and a prayer for tomorrow.