Nights at the Plantation

Charles Clifford Brooks III had a poem, Wet Walks With Otis Redding, appear here as part of Contributor Series 9: If Men Had Ears. This poem is part of a collection that is forthcoming. 

Nights at the Plantation
By Charles Clifford Brooks III

At eleven years old
my great-aunt
gave me coffee.
Staying overnight
I slept on the screened porch,
coddled in that gentle dark.
Waking, breakfast,
it felt like the life
of a prince.

Extracurricular criminals
we plotted on leather couches,
smoked where Civil War
soldiers once stood.
These are unmentionable evenings
made from semi-automatic weapons
and Maker's Mark.

A blue lady filters through,
then saunters across
the room. Dead come here.
A house breathing, 
the unfeeling brick
speaks at night.
Ghosts watch us sleep
and whisper 
gibberish.

Posted by Annmarie at 8/1/2011 8:48 PM
Categories: today's words
Tags: Charles Clifford Brooks III plantation growing up guns ghosts
 

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