15 White Coated Black Bodies

 Dark puffed swirls of clouds,

gathered as if to tell,

of a glorious future,

these are shoots on the lips and tongues,

of the cotton plantation slaves,

the plantationers,

you may think of an engine,

and you will be forgiven,

for your idea of a motor,

I speak of another engine,

bent and painstakingly sore,

picking and cleaning cotton,

you may think of autonomous machines,

and you will be forgiven,

for your idea of automated robots,

I speak of a primo automaton,

for the plantations had them first,

picking and cleaning cotton,

a self-driving and self-repairing engine,

a self-guiding beast of burden,

lagging heavy cotton-filled baskets,

if the pangs of child-birth,

sent pin-pricks of painful reminders,

this bent expectant mother,

most likely nauseated but energetic,

with the heartburn searing the chest,

waves of Braxton Hicks contractions,

a shriek of pain,

birth rivulets flow,

knees bended and the woman lies prostate,

on firm solid terra,

this is Mother Nature's Temple,

The burning bush of awareness,

a cue for other plantationers,

who form a ring of life,

a midwife parts open,

the birth gates,

a Mosaic figure with the tablets,

suddenly a wriggling form pops out,

another baby is born on a plantation,

the mother utters a prayer,

and so it will be,

for many plantationer Black mothers,

the clouds part,

a wonder of wonders,

a shaft of light streaks through,

it is the future before them,

they are standing on the other side of Jordan,

the cotton they picked and sorted,

made the gowns the subtly smug progeny wear,

as they unabatedly preside over,

large hospitals and medical facilities,

into which the Black, Brown, White and Indigenous,

immigrants as well as new comers,

walk in and are expertly mid-wifed or cared for,

the 15 white coated black bodies,

are but the shoots for a future forest.