For the writer of this wonderful article: “Perfect Day In Charleston, SC”:
This ain’t the first time y’all came here,
your head brimming with expectations of fried opossum
and hillbilly carnival, the specter of the south leaving
such a distinctly sweet taste in your mouth.
But here we ain’t choking on molasses, ain’t passing time
running through fields of corn, listening to country music,
and doing whatever else the fuck you think we do here.
You come to Charleston and smile, congratulate us
on how progressive we’ve become. How our buckteeth
don’t offend you as they snack on sweet taters.
You said something to that effect, didn’t you,
when you praised the southern boutiques built for tourists,
said the south ain’t so bad after all.
You came looking for genteel, so I guessed you miss
the dirt in our teeth, the flames in our eyes, the fight
in our chests, and the holy brains in our skulls.
Cute that you thought a day could do us justice,
that when looking for the beautiful in our city,
you only looked up toward steeples, conjuring
plantation homes in downtown that never existed.
Tell me again how quaint we are, us quiet people,
how we put you to sleep. How you think that condescension
ain’t fighting words.