☀ Today's Poem: "Charleston" Afaa M. Weaver

In a fountain at the harbor, children
wash themselves in water spraying
in the heat. They count themselves dark
and light. The aircraft carrier sits
in the moist nothing of salt water, tons
of tons weighing in the soft splash.
We count our wishes, to be free,
to be at ease, to be in abundance.
Above us spirits whirl in a thunderhead.

On steps across from the slave mart,
I peel an orange for the slow rip of its flesh
in my thumb, the sweet dotting of my nose
with its juice. I suck the threads of it,
gaze at the wooden doors now closed,
at the empty space inside with iron hooks.
I can see the white folks' heads checking
available cash in front of naked Africans
chained, bereaved, and listening to
a cruelty yet to be born. I can smell
the congregation of odors, humans fresh
from slave ships or working in fields, and
humans fresh from beds of fine linen,
sleeping with fingers in Bibles and prayers.

This is not a petty thing because we have
a rental car with an air conditioner, a tape
player, and various cushions. We have come
far to do this, to gaze out from the banks
of this plantation river to the rice fields,
to walk in Charleston. I keep the heat
from threatening my life, and I wonder
if I could have survived slavery to be old,
if being old is all there is to live to be.
I walk around the slave quarters and hear
African languages speaking in magnolias.