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Rope
Kwame Dawes
To hold our lives together on the cart
before the slow march after midnight
along back-roads, blind-driving, the scent
shadow in the fields a threat of sorts;
we use rope thick as two thumbs side by side,
pulling hard on the knot to keep our
parts from falling by the wayside. We
constant use, never letting it stay
idle long enough to rot. It is hard
to look at the coiled silence of our
strongest rope and not think of what
it has held: the heavy grey-green
battered bucket knocking the stone
sides of the wall, top water spilling
back down, this cherished substance,
open field at dusk, her head heavy
against her neck, the way she
hold the balance of our need
in thin rope; the dead weight
of Junebug at dawn, his skin still
steaming, his beautiful black skin
catching the morning light, tender
among the leaves, how we found him
there, his neck stretched, the wrapping
let his body down into our
arms then carried it like a soldier's
flag, bearing it behind the cart
This ordinary rope, this gift
we cannot forget, this remembrance
of what we have lost. Someday,
a soul will come out of the fields
to claim it, and then we will know.
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