SO SHE TOLD HIM
I met a man today
who said he was my father.
NO eyes of green or lashes long has he.
No coarse curls of brown
or thickened brow or eye.
No wide-tooth grin or high bone cheek.
No slender legs or narrowness of feet.
I met a man today who said,
he was my father,
or so my mother told him.
I met a woman today.
My daughter, that she is.
Wide-eyed arrogance,
and thickened skin.
A reflection in my mind’s eye.
The sternness of her grin
thrusted boldly against
cheek and chin.
Steady and sure-footed in her gait
an unfledged reminder of myself.
I met a woman today
thickness of brow,
wide-tooth grin,
and high-bone of cheek.
I met a woman today.
A daughter of mine she is.
WHAT MAKES YOU THINK?
What makes you think
that because I’m black
I love to cook
and clean.
What makes you think
my time is spent
dancing
while they scream.
What makes you think
that silence
is an inability
to speak.
What makes you think
non-violence and peace
is a sign
that I am weak?
What makes you think
you know me.
JUST LIKE HER
They say I look just like her
the same eyes and arched brow.
The same nose always tilted up
towards heaven,
as if expecting to see
what no one else can see.
The same sun kissed locks
and skin the color of burnt butter.
They say I sound just like her
unapologetic for the silence
refusing to be moved or
coaxed into an unrequited dance
Just like her,
I am reminded
to not get above
my raisin’.
I cherish the thought.
But I am not her, I am me.
Choosing to be who I am.
WHY
Why are only children allowed
to wiggle their toes in the sand
and blow bubbles in the wind?
Why are only children allowed
to bare their bottoms in the sun
and toss mud pies hand to hand?
Whey are only children allowed
to do the things that children do?
I remember once that we were children too.
JOURNEY
There is no way to separate myself.
No way to unravel the ropes
that bind or the ties that intertwine,
generation upon generation,
of bodacious full bodied women
holding fast to their curly hair and
high cheek boned reflections.
I know them very well
even though we have never met.
They line the walls of the room
where only the preacher is allowed
to sit and rest his weary feet.
Framed in chestnut and gold leaf
they sit staunch and perfectly still,
dressed in their best Sunday dresses
and high buttoned shoes
They pose and embrace one another,
like well-beloved relatives always do.
I have no memory
of the fair skinned beauty
staring back at me with radiant eyes,
manicured nails painted
seafoam green by the man with
the hairy brush for one dollar
on a warm summer Sunday afternoon.
Resting on the hips
of caramel colored witnesses
they carry with them the secret,
of country ham, fried chicken,
slices of sweet potato pie
and homemade buttered yeast rolls,
wrapped and bound in wax
paper wrapping folded at the corners,
nestled in white paper boxes
tied with cotton string
for the long train ride north.
BANGED
Banged by your bluest beat
stroked into the bluest mood
Cloaked in your bluest overture
I am warmed by the thought
that blue is my favorite color.
The Mountains and Oceans Between Us 