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The Bones of My Father By Etheridge Knight
There are no dry bones here in this valley. The skull
of my father grins at the Mississippi moon
from the bottom of the Tallahatchie,
the bones of my father are buried in the mud
of these creeks and brooks that twist and flow their secrets to the sea.
but the wind sings to me here the sun speaks to me
of the dry bones of my father.
There are no dry bones in the northern valleys, in the Harlem alleys
young / black / men with knees bent nod on the stoops of the tenements
and dream of the dry bones of my father.
And young white longhairs who flee their homes, and bend their minds
and sing their songs of brotherhood and no more wars are searching for
my father's bones.
There are no dry bones here. We hide from the sun.
No more do we take the long straight strides. Our steps have been shaped by the cages
that kept us. We glide sideways like crabs across the sand.
We perch on green lilies, we search beneath white rocks...
THERE ARE NO DRY BONES HERE
The skull of my father grins at the Mississippi moon
from the bottom of the Tallahatchie.