The Harlem Lynching Tree, with Poems for Alma

by Taylor Alexis Baker

protest on the strreet

It’s an early morning like any other, when the sun beams in a mocking tone, not a cloud in sight, as if the rain lost its way to this muggy city.  I haven’t spoken much about what happened to anyone. I write in my journal, as I often do, and the pastor is now watching me stare at the stained-glass windows, as he often does. I’m hoping that one of the colors above would make me feel something other than pain. The blues and the greens speak to each other often throughout the pattern. While I sit trying to figure out their conversation, the pastor approaches me. 

“Well, there’s a familiar face,” says Father Cousins. “I’m glad you’ve been coming more frequently lately. Is something wrong?” 

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