My mother never picked cotton.
She never knew the bite
of an already bloody whip on
her sun-scorched skin,
black—from God and years of use.
She was whipped plenty,
her momma preferred
an electrical cord dangling
as if alive
in one hand,
half empty bottle of vodka
in the other.

My mother never knew
the crazy that came from
bending over prickly bushes
Her fingers never scarred
with wispy threads
of raw leaves.
She claimed to have Princess Feet,
always soft and lotioned.

My mother was never driven
by a slaver.
Never forced to fall
in yield to his pursuit,
open her legs in silence,
remain silent.
And yet,
I am driving her out of
her cotton pickin’ mind.