Sun ripples over Easter’s hair
her great great grandmother’s footsteps
from Africa’s mangroves
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,
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,
Outside her homestead
bare toes tap mixed blood jigs.
After da is done trading furs
he will come home