Screams in the Night


Awakened in the night
to the sound of screams;
heart pounding at the cage
that is her chest;
face wet with tears, and
body with sweat.
In the dark that surrounds her
the shock of the truth
—the screams in the night
are her own.

Daughter of a rich man,
raised in the south,
skin white as African ivory.
Taught to look down  
at those less fortunate souls
descended from grandfather’s slaves.

But night visions curdle
the soft white of her brain
with visions of blackness
writhing in pain,
and the screams in the night 
that rattle the windows
and tear up the sheets;
that rip through her throat 
to find voice in the streets
are her own.

Daughter of slavery
stripped of her own name,
forced into service too young;
body and spirit, broken
for the colour of her birth
by white hands branding her skin.

The face becomes clear
as the nightmare unfolds,
the eyes bare a soul that she knows,
but the fingers that clutch 
at the sun-cracked dry earth
are small, innocent, and black,
but the pain in her back
and the fear of attack,
and the screams in the night
are her own.

Poor child raised a slave
in a life wrought with pain
dead at the young age of twelve,
her soul resurrected, forever entwined  
with that of her master’s 
granddaughter.

And the screams in the night are 
her own.



march 2006
Janet Ried





Awarded by New Horizons