Sun ripples over Easter’s hair

long after

her great great grandmother’s footsteps

are plucked

from Africa’s mangroves

and stuck

like a pair of wild oysters

near the Oconaluftee River.

No use brushing maize off stolen finger tips

color sticks like the sound of grand father flutes in grand mother ears

steam rises

above swamp milk weed and Yellow Lady’s Slippers

around an old nest in a Sweet gum tree

where mourning doves coo to one another,

lay eggs

outside her homestead

where bare toes tap mixed blood jigs.

After da is done trading furs

he will come home