Beyond the smell of moss and damp of Green River headwaters
Beyond the lavender breeze which lifts the feathered wing of Mockingbird flight over southern ring of the knobs
where blinding sun corners morning with the Pennyroyal Plateu
and where Miss Jane Baxter toiled with calloused hand, red, and dried as autumn kisses pinoak leave

Hungered and longing for the smell of turnip and mutton stew
that before filled the gapping holes and throbbing heart
All alone on Doctor Menifee’s tobacco plantation she softly strokes the aromatic strands that covered tender leaf underside – and touches the reaching shoots ordered along miles of trenched rows. 

In her dreams she still hears the burning calls of Bonny Scotland
where kidnapped she traveled to this solitary place- she was trafficked- merely eleven in that year of 1753.
violently torn from her slain mothers bloody clinched hand
then onward stored beneath darkened ship hull
like luggage processed through Carolina port –
a long ride in buggy bed to the far Southern side of O’ Pinacles 
a new life where the good Doctor’s erratic whims sternly force the commands. 

With hungry field coyote she did sacredly roam
until sweet scent of evening prim rose cautioned her back home
calming respice seldom but sometimes found in sunray heated Blue Lick waters
she fully emmersed – always returning before she was missed. 

You think it isn’t so, not brutally enslaved – it couldn’t happen that way
instead indentured servitude was the gift of her home. 
But try to believe – it sometimes happens today
My 6th great-grandmother’s inhumane story
is true, carefully passed down, witness was bore.
Her resilient strength I have been blessed.