the picnic
on august 7, 1930, thomas ship and abram smith were lynched in marion, indiana for killing a white man and raping his companion. one man was guilty; the other was innocent
she grins. a woman with gray hair.
she could be a grandmother.
a young couple smile.
the woman wears
a short-sleeved dress.
she touches hands with
her boyfriend.
they are framed on the left
and right by more faces
with shining teeth.
there are men dressed
in white shirts, hats and suits.
one man beams as he
points with pride
to the dangling bodies
of thomas ship and abram smith.
other men talk about
the night’s work
and justice delivered.
the camera catches a full
frame of people some standing
under the corpses, staring
at the earthly remains
of young men
denied a jury trial.
all want this night
to be captured,
for they want a copy of the
photograph for the
family album.
a city in the heartland
this is the story of james cameron. the time is august 7, 1930.
the place is marion, Indiana.
“cameron, cameron!”
they chant my name like
adoring fans.
water runs down my leg.
pain rips my body
from the countless
blows and kicks.
my blood is ice.
through glazed eyes,
I see my companions just hang.
a crowbar pokes
through a chest.
“cameron, cameron.”
the noose slips over my neck.
a hush settles the mob.
there in the quiet,
from somewhere in the air,
a voice sounds.
“take this boy down,
he had nothing to do with… killing
or raping.”
at first, a few shouts echo their song.
next hundreds pick up the ring of truth.
the rope loosens
and they half-carry me back to jail.
my body heals,
but i get four years…
the charge of manslaughter…
the killing of a white man.
i was only 16... and innocent.
Dorothy Summers studied poetry at IUPUI in Indianapolis. Formerly she worked as a public affairs specialist for the U.S. Army and as an editorial assistant. She has published poetry in Flying Island and news and feature stories in national Army magazines and in newspapers in Indiana, Kentucky and Illinois.