Lament for a Seminal People 

            There're at least ten of us everywhere.      
Nipsey Russell       

                                                 
We straddle the earth, having
left bloody footprints
wherever we went: 

the scoop of our heels in Africa,
the span of our arches over
the Atlantic, the spokes of our
ankles in Europe,

the balls of our feet
indented in North America,
the spread of our toes
in South America.

And once sieved through
these passages, we were tossed
on shore, pure gold, the dross 

burned out, our strengths floating
on top like cream, waiting to be
scraped and eaten by someone
other than ourselves. []

Death of a sage in the city of God’s team

the anchorman reported that a policeman's
bullet had killed
an 80-odd-year-old Black man.

a single bullet severed a link
between eight generations, a living witness
to the post-Diaspora--

the fear/the murders/the riots
the marches/the hope. . .

a gun in the hand of a fool,
and a remnant of our past
is silenced
forever

a sage, plucked up by the roots--
dead black men tell no tales.[]

At the Grave of the Catwoman's Mother
for Eartha

“My mother did what she had to do.”

I heard you say this, Eartha, on a PBS special
on your way to visit your mother’s grave. 

You paused . . .
then told how your mother pleaded
with the dark-skinned man
to keep you after they married.
But he didn't want a yellah

gal living in his house, and your
mother need a huhzband . . .
so she bargained you away
in a package deal
that included your sister
so you wouldn't be alone.

You paused again . . .
then talked about the time the stranger
walked up to you on your aunt’s
porch, raised your chin, validated
you with a nod of his head, then left. 
When you told your aunt,
she said that he was probably
your father . . .

At the grave, I heard you say:
“I understand, mother, why you gave me away.”
“I understand. . .”
“I understand. . .”

Your tears showed me otherwise. []

Bone by Bone
          We are a people.  A people do not throw
                their geniuses away.  If they do, it is
                our duty, as witnesses for the future,
                to collect them again for the sake of
                our children.  If necessary, bone by bone.
                                    Alice Walker    

How could we forget their voices?
Bessie and Billie belting the blues,
Zora chatting folklore.

And yet we nearly forgot Zora,
buried in an unmarked grave
covered with weeds…

until a Witness exhumed her memory
and breathed life
back into her stories,
back into her words…

so we can always remember. []