Sweet Home Plantation

Sweet Home Plantation


It’s a lie, of course. Nothing sweet

About this enslaved labor farm

Except perhaps for the lemonade 

Which we drink on the back porch,

Grateful for a brief respite

After a tour of the house and grounds.


We drift in and out of time.

The enslaved Black men and women,

The enslaved Black children who worked

This farm emerge from the old

Smokehouse and cabins spread out

Before us. They call to us,

Tell us their names, then disappear.

The heat, the past overwhelm us.


On top of a column

Of the porch sits a bird’s nest

With mother and baby bird.

The other baby has fallen.

It lies in a corner of the porch.

It is beyond our help.

It feeds the ants that cover it.


Soon there’ll be nothing left

But a bit of bone and feather.

Out in the yard a cat calls.

We all rise, say good-bye

To the owners, a newly married

Gay couple from Atlanta.

Home isn’t that far from here.

What are you looking for?