Mississippi Calling

Poem about the death of a grandmother. Based in the south. Tones of black slavery.

This is the sound of slavery,
the Mississippi River – hot, humid,
sweat beads glistening from brown skin,
mosquitoes finding refuge.
The river raft, weathered with seasons
filled with generations,
glides quietly.
Grandma on her final journey,
white daisies adorn the raft,
pure, sacred.
We, all dressed in white cloth,
starched from the sweltering hot globe.
Grandma's naked feet stare up to the sky,
the soles calloused and wrinkled
tell stories now quieted.
Her soft small hands
folded gently across her body.
Me, never again to see the
up and down movement of breathing.
This is our last meeting and
I stare at her,
I stare at her,
I stare at her,
then, touch her hand, one last time.