Laurie Jean Weil
A Conversation Between an Oak Tree and a Man Lynched Among Its Limbs

Bunk Richardson was lynched in Mobile, Alabama, February 11, 1906

Oak:
I grew at the edge of a cotton field
the edge the thing that saved me
when plows readied the fecund soil
to receive the seed

Bunk:
I grew at the edge of a cotton field
My mother at the edge of sugarcane rows
My father at the edge of rice swamps
We were not allowed to root anywhere

Oak:
I grew tall and strong
not far from other trees
and trees beyond trees, and more trees
our roots intertwined with fungi
ferrying messages—how to survive

Bunk:
I grew tall and strong
taller and stronger beyond my twelve years
I was snatched from my family
snatched, stolen, sent up and down rivers
no reed basket

Oak:
I gather people
people working fields step into my shade
share bread
their children hide toys among my roots
young lovers hold hands, their backs against my trunk

Bunk:
I gather people, a mindless mob
to take my life on your limb
I touched no one
I stole nothing
The law did not cover me

Oak:
I wrap your memory in my skin
gather owls to stand watch
and spiders to weave webs
dream-catchers for a different time

Acorns await amenable soil
for truth-bearing

Bunk:
I wrap my memory in my skin
far deeper in my heart
love of truth
insistent heartbeat that will not be stopped one day will be heard, hallowed
will set us all free