It recalls backs and buttocks
and its lines mark generations
settling into an open palm
or closed fist or even a pistol
fired by one who never felt it.

The scars of the whip begin
in the flesh but seep into sleep
into nightmares that can sprout
legs to stalk the day-lit streets
because the whip cannot forget.

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Poet’s Notes: The original draft of the poem is below. If you feel strongly about this poem, leave a comment (further) below.

 

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