I was born into cotton,
Momma pushed me out while pickin,
Ants ran across my dark skin,
Sister pulled them off like candy,
laid me in the furrow.
I starred into the first of many droughts.
I cried out but there was no air.
All the pickers moved on down the rows,
leaving me to the dark.
moonlight stole across the field,
a cold mist covered me.
The trees rose,
picked up their baskets,
walked into shadows.
I saw Momma,
she crawled through the cotton.
Sister whispered, “Its risky Momma.”
“Hush-won’t leave my baby here with no compass.”
Momma pulled a mess of rags from her body,
wrapped me up in layers,
made a pile of cotton,
fashioned it into a tombstone,
wrote in the blood of her body,
the same I took from her,