Crosses are burning
They are burning the crosses.
Jesus is dying, night after night,
on well-kept lawns,
all over the South.
Father, forgive them -
His sensitive lips explode.
His limbs are now melting;
longish black hair burns into bone.
They are burning the crosses.
You know how it feels,
when your hands are on fire
and you still are aware of the fact
that fingernails melt and don’t burn?
That it hurts even more,
when the nails through your wrists
and your feet are red-hot?
They are burning the crosses,
telling old stories of hate.
Conical hats point to the stars,
daring them to move
or change.
The flames - they dance
and starched white is specked
with soot of their Saviour.
Crosses are burning:
the bones of their Lord,
broken and black
as the skin they abhor.