11/21/2020

The touch,
the history
of cotton,
the fabric of our past.
I often wonder to myself
why it’s not more of a
frustrated talking point
sticking point, argument
embarrassment, portrayal
of our deeply disturbing past.
I know it was grown, used
for generations before,
torn against rusted shackles
brown bleeding fingers
in the fields of stolen land.
But it’s everywhere,
in everything, I’m reminded.
Making it that much more
confusing why we don’t
wear more of the discomfort
every time we feel the softness
against our steely skin.
I’m not saying
we shouldn’t wear cotton,
I stress.
I’m asking why when we do,
we don’t remember
to remind ourselves
why,
saying a quiet prayer
for forgiveness and grace
to the land
the people
to ourselves.