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Charleston

Richard K. Williams

In Charleston South Carolina,
beneath the masonry double staircase
that leads up to
the Daughters of the Confederacy Museum
a black family sells sea grass baskets.
I consider how much more obvious the irony had to be
before anyone else would take notice.

Up the block my family
occupies two booths in the
Bubba Gump’s Shrimp restaurant.
We consume trendy food
amid plenty of kitsch and memorabilia
from the 1994 movie.

While it was fun being together,
I was, a little sad, because
of all the places we could have discovered
to eat in, we ate in a corporate
chain restaurant, devoid of local color.
Like going to Manhattan’s Little Italy
and eating at Olive Garden.

Then after lunch, back at
the open air market.
I found some reprints of posters
advertising slave sales.
Men, women, children
sold like livestock.
Their names and ages listed.
Along with the type of labor
they were forced to do.
I couldn’t understand why anyone
would buy those posters,
further shaming their memory.
Feeling the souls of these people had
suffered enough indignity
to last an eternity

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