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GINGER By Patricia Smith Ginger is our golden child, Slim and regal Homespun and elemental, With flashing eyes and endless smiles. Ginger is the first To leave Sarah’s garden, To leave the weeping willow and kudzu, Impaciens and gardenias, To leave the mustard greens and grits. Ginger is our golden child, Pulled to that big city, Pulled to that architectural firm, Pulled to that rarified air of the World Trade Center. Ginger, our golden child, Lover of Gucci and sushi, Takes the subway to work This day as every day, Walking to building 2, Halted as the plane crashes into her building, Immobilized by thunder and quake, Wails and screams, Colleagues leaping from the skies. Ginger is our golden child, Covering her head and Trudging north One mile Two miles Three miles Blistered feet Swollen eyes, Her youthful figure Forever aged, heaving cramps Of despair. |
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