in which my greater self

but thiswhat you pawni will redeemwhat you steali will concealmy private silence toyour public guiltis all i gotgirlsfirst time a white manopens his flylike a good thingwe’ll just laughlaugh real loud myblack womenchildrenwhen they ask youwhy is your mama so funnysayshe is a poetshe don’t have no sense

all of them carrying yesterdayforever on their white tipped backs,all of them dragging forward tomorrow.it is the great circulationof the earth’s body, like the bloodof the gods, this river in which the pastis always flowing. every wateris the same water coming round.everyday someone is standing on the edgeof this river, staring into time,whispering mistakenly:only here….

thinking of everything but kinship.collards and kalestrain against each strange otheraway from my kissmaking hand andthe iron bedpot.the pot is black.the cutting board is black,my hand,and just for a minutethe greens roll black under the knife,and the kitchen twists dark on its spineand i taste in my natural appetitethe bond of live things everywhere.

another creature’s back, i wondercould i have fought these thing?surrounded by no son of mine saveold men calling Mother like in the talethe astrologer tell, i wondercould i have walk away when voicessinging in my sleep? i one old woman.always i seem to worrying now foranother young girl asleepin the plain evening.what song around her…

seemed like what she touched was hereseemed like what touched her couldn’t hold,she got us almost through the high grassthen seemed like she turned around and ranright back inright back on in

and dead these 15 yearswho carried a bookon every stroll.when daddy was dyingshe left the streetsand moved back hometo tend him.her pimp came tooher Diamond Dickand they would take turnsreadinga bible aloud through the house.when you poem thisand you will she would sayremember the Book of Job.happy birthday and hopeto you Josephineone of the eastsmost…