do you remember
when we used to play
under the willow tree?
how our laughter hung onto her leaves
and the smell of sweet plantain
danced in the wind.

how we found refuge on new islands
we swam through thorns to get there.
but to our surprise,
as we arrived,
we learned that proximity to whiteness
did not bleach our skin.

we built a home together
a place to call ours.
though we had earned our freedom,
i could still feel the tears of our ancestors
falling from the willow tree.

why do they weep?
shouldn’t they be happy for
our white picket fences?
our clean and palatable accents
that hide the ghosts in our mouths?
the green grass we water
and throw over our ashes
as they claim
to 'say
our names’?

freedom, oh, freedom,
that 7 letter word
dangled in front of us
for 400 years.
“freedom is calling, freedom is calling.
run for your lives, freedom is calling!”
but when we stop and listen
we find sirens or silence,
and hear the cries
from the willow tree.
— rooted

A & K Walker