Here I lie. A hollow
Samboo. Filled with your tears
 
and regrets. The tick in the eye
of Lancaster pride. The stutter,
 
the pause, the dry cough, shifting
eyes that cannot meet a Black man’s
 
gaze. Questions, questions from either
side that foul us for answers. The how
 
and the why ultimately defeating us
with shame, with anger, with the defensive
 
voices of those who lived and enjoyed
the benefits, who did not question too
 
deeply the source that enriched
all of Lancaster life.
 
Who will heal and elevate to light
the souls of your ancestors if
 
you refuse to remember? If you
cover their incarnations with half-truths?
 
Grocer? You were a Slave Trader!
And everything has its price,
 
and denial is only debt
with interest to be paid.