Love is plucking splinters
from underneath fingernails
after we carved our initials
into the bark of the old oak
tree, brown like our skin.
You suck the blood from my
finger—a form of foreplay,
your tongue dancing a pirouette
in your mouth. Prickling taste
buds crawl over the wound like
the feet of centipedes. Fall on
top of me into a pillow of white
cotton fields, where just last
June we snatched crop into
our sacks until our backs
cracked under the cowhide
lash. I trace the scars down
your spine, that extend out
across your shoulder blades
over your ribcage, curling
around your torso, and make
out a hand. And it’s as if the
hand of God pressed you down
into the ground. Into me.
© Nortina Simmons
Nortina's Writing Inspiration Well 
Wow! It started one way for me and ended another way. What they were probably experiencing back in the day. Great poem, Nortina.
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Amidst all the hardships and toils of slavery. I’d like to thing some of them found blissful love. 🙂
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