Martin Is Untied From A Whipping Post In The Heat Of Slavery, Sees The Future, And Thinks

With the sinews of his bull whip I will suture my bleeding heart.

I will lash their children to the stump of my left foot and dance my two step on the shoulders of their aged and dieing.

I will strangle these men with their fob chains and thrust myself inside them until they are pregnant with vision.

I will set the serpents upon her ankles and turn my blinded eyes to her throes.

I will reach my thorny, leathered palms to rescue her fruit, but only to slice them up when they too are ripe.

I will leave her ghosts besotted on foreign shores, and fill the bedding of my children with their soft, sweet agony.

I will tear the south from this earth by her ankles.

I will spread my wings and set flame to this nation until she breaths her last.