African American Poetry (1870-1928): A Digital Anthology

Arna Bontemps, "Dirge" (1926)

Oh bury my bones in the dark of the moon,
In a place where the soil is bare,
And none will say that I mar the clay
Or the vine buds there too soon.
But the worm will think me sweet somehow.
As he gnaws away I’ll hear him say,
“I scorn the taste of white flesh now.”

Published in The Crisis, May 1926

This page has paths:

This page has tags: