Harriet Tennessee Alexander
Did not suffer an overripe deacon
To go unremarked from where she stood.
My great grandmother, duly churched herself,
Would slyly christen the immoderate soul
A constipated Baptist. Landing hard
On self-righteous in her considered view
Could overplay the sanctimony card.
The railroad bisecting her Texas town
Isolated white from black and brown.
On their respective sides of the divide
Solid citizens in Sunday best
Professed monochromatic piety.
It would not do for Hattie Tennessee.
The dame kicked up her version of a fuss:
A blood-red South was not her cup of tea.
Her scruple went down like a blunderbuss.
She prayed the more, regretted it the less.
That rebel died unsung, but not by me.

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