Honey on a plantation by Alana Kabaka ’21

honey on a plantation

grown in the creases of my arms

curled behind my knees

curdled in my hands

i walk on the bones of the slave

on segregation

i walk on sugar cane and cassava

my bones seasoned by my mother with

creole and cayenne

dipped in molasses  

my skin the color of the silhouettes

layed on the unmowed grass

their blood there to water the ground

because all we are is fertilizer

all my friends are starting to become more

familiar with their eyelids

they can no longer hide behind their shadows

white chalk lines filled in by black boys

their tongues still dancing with

don’t shoot

screams for their mother

maybe they didn’t scream loud enough

or maybe their words just rickashay off the bulletproof vest

and sink into the ground

people refuse to acknowledge

that i exist  

it’s almost like my need for air is too big of a favor

they say black don’t crack

but we seem to be shattered with every n-word slipped from white kids lips  

every moan from gun shoots

honey on a plantation

dripped from my fingers

in the crevasses of my arms

between my toes

leakes a fortune of gold

that i must have missed

honey that

my ancestors refused to give up