On Stone Mountain
I heed a path trotted for me before.
I am this southern—following
and following and following. What else
is there but the stone clapping
against my feet like a heartbeat—Thy name
I love; I love thy rocks and rills. I walk
Stone Mountain, its past ridden with scars,
the names of walkers past etched
and painted onto its surface. I scratch
my gravel. I am scorn by my will
to reach the top when at the bottom
that old flag hangs, forever willowing
in the wind, the shape of its arms forming
an X I have carried thus far already
as burden and haunt—home branded
onto my very back. And I cannot.
Almost there, and I cannot.
Almost there, and I cannot take that stand.
And sit near the rocks not too far
from touching the blue sky overhead,
looking out into the distant city
that I break daily as bread.
I try to look away (look away!),
but everywhere I am facing south.
Everywhere I face my country, my tears
of thee—Old times there are not
forgotten! I am afraid of what awaits me.
I am afraid of the wind that carries
and whispers and wisps.
The wind that can collect my body
and throw it against any hard thing,
into any tree, a hanging symbol
of victory etched with your name
and your name and yours. Almost there.
But I descend.
Copyright Credit: Malcolm Tariq, "On Stone Mountain" from Heed the Hollow. Copyright © 2019 by Malcolm Tariq. Reprinted by permission of Graywolf Press, www.graywolfpress.org.
Source: Heed the Hollow (Graywolf Press, 2019)