Till's body rose from river bottom --
barbed wire around the neck to cotton gin fan,
nibbled flesh and bloated skin
after a pistol whipping, a shot, an axe
splitting the head, a disfigured eye socket,
back bruised, hips splayed open like butterflied breast--
and was given to a mother who displayed savage
fear. 

Before he went south, she said Get down
on your knees and beg for forgiveness.
He did not. He had nothing to beg for. He did
nothing wrong, said nothing wrong,
but they believed this white bitch when she said he whistled.

You don't whistle at no white woman. 
The slaughtering of negroes is alive in Mississippi.
The slaughtering of negroes is allowed,
and people in the Freestate of Tallahatchie do
as they damn well please. He was a lesson.
This is what happens to smart niggers.
This happens to niggers, smart or not. 

*an earlier version of this poem appeared in Red Paint Hill Journal in 2017

Ashley Elizabeth (she/her) is a writing consultant, teacher, and poet. Her works have appeared in SWWIM, Memoir Mixtapes, and Zoetic Press, among others. Her chapbook, you were supposed to be a friend, is available at Nightingale & Sparrow (June 2020). When Ashley isn't serving as assistant editor at Sundress Publications or working as a member of the Estuary Collective, she habitually posts on Twitter and Instagram (@ae_thepoet). She lives in Baltimore, MD with her partner and hopefully soon a few furry friends.