Creole Fire

Dig your hands in the Mississippi mud, dear;
stain those pretty fingers like my skin, my heritage, darling.
Feel what it's like to be kicked down like a dog on the ground,
like the lowest form of life; gasping
as stale October clogs your lungs,
the stench of burning leaves,
burning cakes left behind on the stovetop, burning flesh.

Oh you made my mother feel inferior,
you made my sister feel like killing herself and
now you're looking up at me, begging for mercy..
Well, you should have known better;
it can't hurt you if you don't believe.

Voodoo forest, Bible-belt;
light 'em up, hang 'em up high above the Georgia pine.
Nestled deep in the Old South;
your house was grand and fine,
decorated with lace-trimming,
flowers pouring over balconies,
carriages in the courtyard lawn;
waiting to be filled with the best of the worst,
aristocratic narcissists on their way to another
Bloody Mary-stained jazz-swingin cocktail party.

You left us alone to pray,
drape our beads over windowsills,
call upon our saints; but
not those you remember.
Oh yes, I'm a heathen..
You can say what you want, mistress.
It's too late to regret the pain,
the verbal and physical lashings
you inflicted; September, 1928.

The banks went under
but you couldn't give a damn
that your own children were starving,
craving wild honey and jam.
So I fed them; me, the Creole
lady you cursed every morning at breakfast.
I made sure your kids went to school on time,
got up early, went to sleep at 9:30.
I told them stories about princes
being turned into frogs by witches
similar to their mama and girls
finding glass slippers, becoming queens,
despite the lack of gold in their apron pockets.
Oh your children; both red-headed twins,
they were so sweet and didn't seem to care
that I was just the servantgirl from Jackson,
that I rode the trolly to work because
I couldn't afford a car like
the rest of Oxford society.
No, dear mistress, all they wanted
was to feel appreciated, for once.

But you cared more about appearances
than anything important.
You cared only for your lipstick,
trademark Egypt, vintage, and
whether or not your husband
noticed the new garnet tucked
in the hollow of your throat.
You're pathetic, that's what you are..
And everybody knows it.

Who do you have to impress now
that your lovely ashes are
all scattered in the swamp, dear?
Is he coming back, your beloved?
No, he ran off; drove off
into the sunset, leaving
you on the doorstep with
a suitcase and a broken watch.

Oh swing lo sweet chariot;
heaven comes down
in bucketfuls of rose blood.
Can you hear the thunder
roaring in the distance
just over these confederate hills?
You know what lightning sounds like, darling?
It sounds like a whip, cracking;
fifty lashes on my spine.
That's the punishment for defiance
in your house, your palace, your
prison for young men and women;
black hair, brown eyes.

And you chopped off my hair with a butcher knife,
said I looked “too white” because of my creamy
cafe-au-lait type skin, biracial grin.
You humiliated my mother, shamed us
for no reason other than that you were envious.
And now what do you have to hold onto, mistress?
Not a lie, not a shred of proof, coins tossed
inside a wishing well and nothing to suggest
that you made a mistake, that you're really
a kind soul; a good person underneath all
your European powder wigs, ripping threads of Somali gowns.

Oh I don't believe you, anyway..
Not your apologies, reeking with stale violet perfume;
not your freesia-spun lies and home-cooked excuses.
Mistress, you're just afraid..
because the celtic crow has flown,
landed on the pine branch opposite your bedroom,
has predicted your time of death; now.
And you can cry all you want,
you can bury us in the dirt
but we'll never die out; strange fruit.

Give it up to the dearly departed;
African children, scorned.
Give it up to this creole fire; lovely,
you can't take it away from us.
Mistress, burn all night long.