The Barn

for Emmett Till

Let it stand,
so we would know
that old edifice:
a tin weed in a field,
ugly and rusted,
that was a cover for those
who would choke out a life.

Let it stand,
so we would know
horror exists in the most innocuous
of things:
in trees, in rivers,
in a decrepit barn
where the screams of an innocent
faded into the countryside
and where cries for mercy
were indistinguishable
from the caws of crows.

Let it stand,
so we would know
that the evil it embodies,
wrapped as it is in corrugated metal,
tarnished by both time and crime,
does not vanish under a glorious sunset
that mutes the memory of violence,
nor weathers away, hidden by
a rustic charm,
because the ghosts of the perpetrators
and the spirit of the dead
forever haunt this space,
and hold claim to this land.

Let it stand,
so we would know
of this grotesque yet humble memorial,
on this stain in a wretched pasture,
so that it would pay grim tribute
to the boy lost here
so many years ago.