Strange fruit hangin'
In the Georgia breeze
From the Poplar trees
They tell us
Avert our eyes
We’re too young
To see the bruises
And the scars
Reminders and Memorials of
How it’s planters
Deformed
Such a strange fruit
We struggle to remember
That activity so often forced
Into passivity
Trickle fed pictures
In black and white
So we may think
Such a strange fruit long extinct
A museum artifact
Like a great aunty’s picture
Tucked away
No longer dwelt upon
Those planters
of the strange fruit know
It’s easier for dust to cover
Their black and white crimes
Then the living color of
The blood-red juice
Running down the skins
Of the strange fruit
They hung
In the Georgia breeze
From the Poplar trees
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A/N:
Written for Juneteenth. Sampled from Billie Holiday.
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About the Creator
Matthew J. Fromm
Full-time nerd, history enthusiast, and proprietor of arcane knowledge.
Here there be dragons, knights, castles, and quests (plus the occasional dose of absurdity).
I can be reached at [email protected]
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