My old high school coach
Couched all his admonitions
Regarding clock and on-field crisis-management
(Both very serious business beneath Friday night lights)
In the context of “When it gets down to the nut cutting...”
Specific instructions followed,
As my skin crawled and soul shuddered
At the old-time plantation castration reference.
I’ve since been told I didn’t understand,
Something about animal management down on the farm.

But, we didn’t come from down on the farm.
And, once you’ve seen ‘strange fruit’ displayed prominently
At a feed store, garage, and crossroads mercantile,
You’re never quite the same again.
I recall, years before high school football, wondering
At such a proud display of an old leather bag, or big withered prunes,
Under the stars and bars.

Realizing why, a heartbeat later, taking a quick look around
For signs of unusual among the regulars, or my very own adult,
Finding just another day with nigger nuts up on the wall.
And, when it gets down to the nut cutting, that dances in my DNA
Everyday.

Brothers created Cool, watching the castration, rape, lynching, burning, drawing and quartering and worse, of their loved ones and acquaintances.  It does not abracadabra, poof, and go away.
I write Poetry.

I was a Freshman.
I hated Jake.
And, greatly resented sitting on his bench during his Friday night race wars.
In fact, I hated football, and played it –well- with all my heart
(and, mind), a bit too long.  I thought it was the only way out.
That can be as effective as nut cutting (Not to mention neater).