Wooden Staircases

my staircase smell like strange fruit
their voices creak as i tiptoe over them
i feel them breathing beneath my feet
and wonder if a negro hangs in the forest
does the tree remember his face

my staircase looks like my brother's skin
and swells like my grand father's tears
the wood in the south is stained
how many of us sleep on the blood of innocent men
How many Mary Turners were taught lessons
that threats to white men in the south
are like leaves on trees
they bounce like branches
struggling to support strange fruit

would it be accessory after the fact?
can we consider them guilty?
do they rot apart from ptsd
as they try to forget the lives they have held
©, 2012, Tiffany "Spokenheart" Shack