I walk listening to the history of those constantly silenced by the oppressors noose.
The plantations smell of burning rubber, fresh cotton, and sweet cane.
I perspire as my senses fill with the blood traded through the middle passage
I’m still shackled,
skin cracking from the bull whip.
Me? I remember who I was until they beat it out of me.
My feet were sore as I laid down
– bleeding –
Shedding the history of my Black shoes