Hair— silver-gray, like streams of stars, Brows— recurved canoes quivered by the ripples blown by pain, Her eyes— mist of tears condensing on the flesh below And her channeled muscles are cluster grapes of sorrow purple in the evening sun nearly ripe for worms. COTTON SONG Come, brother, come. Lets lift it; Come now, hewit! roll away! Shackles fall upon the Judgment Day But lets not wait for it. God’s body’s got a soul, Bodies like to roll the soul, Cant blame God if we dont roll, Come, brother, roll, roll! Cotton bales are the fleecy way Weary sinner’s bare feet trod, Softly, softly to the throne of God, “We aint agwine t wait until th Judgment Day! Nassur; nassur, Hump. Eoho, eoho, roll away! We aint agwine t wait until th Judgment Day!” God’s body’s got a soul, Bodies like to roll the soul, Cant blame God if we dont roll, Come, brother, roll, roll! CARMA Wind is in the cane. Come along. Cane leaves swaying, rusty with talk, Scratching choruses above the guinea’s squawk, Wind is in the cane. Come along. Carma, in overalls, and strong as any man, stands behind the old brown mule, driving the wagon home. It bumps, and groans, and shakes as it crosses the railroad track. She, riding it easy. I leave the men around the stove to follow her with my eyes down the red dust road. Nigger woman driving a Georgia chariot down an old dust road. Dixie Pike is what they call it. Maybe she feels my gaze, perhaps she expects it. Anyway, she turns. The sun, which has been slanting over her shoulder, shoots primitive rockets into her mangrove-gloomed, yellow flower face. Hi! Yip! God has left the Moses-people for the nigger. “Gedap.” Using reins to slap the mule, she disappears in a cloudy rumble at some indefinite point along the road.