Lori’s voice
turns into a white flag.
She surrenders to the long ago—
not me.
She points to the silver pitcher
her mother gave her.
This inheritance
is slavery’s tangible legacy.
The silver pitcher is not to blame.
Nor should Lori be.
Yet the sharp hiss of field hands under the whip
tarnishes the polished sheen.
copyright © 2022 Kenneth P. Gurney
Umflop 