in branson my world distilled into lake and slowed to the crawl of a white chris craft and a southern drawl i was baptized and born again to a new religion blue dashers dancing atop the lake, light strokes across the heavy landscape, eagles fly & bowriders call & there i was, stagnant and black against the holy water in the land stretching its fingers to god but was it god or ghosts that made this promise land? voices in the wind of my kin asking me where i’ve been wondering how long it would take me to reclaim the land promised to them to jump unshackled in the lake and let them watch me swim and what if i drown in a memory of all they were amongst chosen people too proud & too taught to bleed red and me still black against the water and black as the swing of the trees and me trying hard to be blue like a dasher or water or sweet like honey golden light black as whatever breathes at the bottom of the basin and the undercurrent it came through and wishin still to rise to dance in the wind like the stars and stripes from the back of the boat in flight the first thing i saw when i finally opened my eyes.
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