A Wreath for Emmett Till by Marilyn Nelson

By Marilyn Nelson

In 1955, humans all around the usa knew that Emmett Louis until eventually used to be a fourteen-year-old African American boy lynched for supposedly whistling at a white lady in Mississippi. The brutality of his homicide, the open-casket funeral, and the acquittal of the boys attempted for the crime drew huge media attention.

Award-winning poet Marilyn Nelson reminds us of the boy whose destiny helped spark the civil rights move. This martyr’s wreath, woven from a little-known yet refined type of poetry, demanding situations us to talk out opposed to modern day injustices, to “speak what we see.”

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Hawke groaned irritably, reading the expression on her face. ” “I didn‟t say a word,” she countered, following him into the plush bedroom with its double bed where he set her case on the floor. “You were thinking it,” he said flatly. He studied her through narrowed eyelids. “I was thinking what a trouble-making busybody your secretary is,” she threw at him, eyes blazing. ” “I don‟t give a damn what he thinks,” he said calmly. ” He drew a deep, angry breath. “I came down here to work, Siri, not to have a running battle with you.

He taunted. “The lobster was delicious,” she replied as she rose. He chuckled softly, walking behind her to the cashier. There was something almost predatory in the sound of his soft laughter. She didn‟t believe for a minute that she might wind up being washed in on a wave with her throat cut, but Hawke was so doggedly protective of her that it made her uneasy. He seated her in a booth in the darkened bar where the jukebox blared like an orchestra in a closet, deafening and brassy. He ordered her a sherry, ignoring the dirty look she gave him.

He turned, pinning her down, his strong hands pushing her wrists into the sand while the surf lathered around them, cold and wet. “Hawke…the water,” she stammered. He was dynamite at close range. This man who was so familiar was at once strange and dangerous and wickedly exciting. She gaped up at him with the shock she was feeling plain in her amber eyes, a little unnerved by the feel of his massive chest bruising the softness of hers, the way that mat of curling dark hair where his shirt was unbuttoned felt against the skin her low-cut top left revealed.

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