Mother: morning comes with heavy humid breath,
scorching horizon’s hills with red warning fire;
northerly breezes carry the scent of death
marching to the drumbeat of Yankee desire.
Still, I smell your sweet potato pie when I close my eyes;
brief seconds remembering kisses on my cheek
before I’d go to the fields where I’d try
to fill father’s worn out shoes and seek
work to help ease your burden and blistered feet.
And, I hear your prayers, Mother, and I cry
because I know I must die and not cheat
reasons I carry the Rebel flag and cry
the rebel yell to help stem the invading blue tide
from flooding our land and your garden of greens.
I could care less about the “Southern” dream,
or slaves, I just protect my daddy’s bride; my
Mother: Dawn’s final day has winked at me
I see Daddy waving with a tear in his eye
Blood, from your womb, pools at my knees
And I savor the love in the scent of your sweet potato pie.