She stares at me from dark page
In black and white (O' how fitting)
And frowns at me in dark consternation.
Her lips look chapped and dry,
Her forehead and nose crinkled with
Confused, anxious, concerned lines
Her head is up though, and she stands proud
Even with creased white shirt and chequered
Skirt sneaking onto the edge of the paper.
She looks up at me, not with condemnation,
Although her eyes are deeper than first
Examination might conceive, and I wonder
At her thoughts, her feelings, her beliefs.
What was she thinking then? What is she
Thinking now? (If she is still alive, that is).
Others stare up at me from crowded cover,
But she is the one whom caught captive eye
And inspired imagination into fiery flight
Of fitful fancies and wonderment
And longing to go back, to learn,
To continue onwards improved
But I can only read the book's title
(One guessed, roughly, already)
"Sweet Land of Liberty? –
The African-American Struggle for
Civil rights in the Twentieth Century"
And ache for that frowning woman
And long to iron away those creases
In friendly understanding.