A Letter From The Dirt

Do you hear me down here?

My mouth was snatched as I screamed for my mother's help.

My hands were bound in a struggle for release.

My lungs were removed as I was held down in the rock of waters.

Tallahatchie was her name.

She swallowed me up without chewing and spit me back up without an apology. 

My nose was taken for I know can no longer smell my mother's cooking. 

My eyes were stolen so I wouldn't have to see their hateful faces. 

My heart was ripped out when God didn't want me to suffer anymore. 

Do you hear me down here?

Is the dirt filling my throat distracting you from what I'm saying. 

Is my smell lingering like the tears my mother left on my grave. 

Let not another flower be pulled too early.

Do you hear me down here?

Or do you only hear the whistle that killed me fourteen years too early?