Rural by Jessica Hite

rural.dirt roads.redder than the bleedthat spilled to make them. rural.glistening dark skinpressed againstrich, white cotton. rural.sunday picnic basketsthe finest leisure day clothesblack bodies driftingin the summer breeze. rural.an orange rolledevery morningby withered, black hands.a sweetness to cast offthe sour of sickness. rural.too many mouths,not enough chickenor eggs or vegetables.only cents, instead of dollarsthe living not shared—only cropped. rural.anywhere but here.pack up and head north;where nigger is negro.still bitter and stinging,but manageable.  rural.long car ridesto grandmother’s house.ten kids to two rooms,but we complain about six. rural.still dirt roads.strange fruit hasrotted to the ground.now bullets chaseblack bodies

along with the summer breeze.

- Jessica Hite