I'm glad I never gave up
On my mother. Even though
There were times that I
Came close. There were
Days when I wondered how I
Was going to get through
The night. How I was going
To survive another day as a nomad.
Dreams are made up of stardust,
The origins of heat and dust.
Smoke and mirrors. Summer's
Strange shadow is a memoir of
Yesterday, and yesterday is an open-space where wildflowers grow.
There are cracks in the threshold of America.
Please step carefully or
You'll lose your heart.
There are signs that Africa is maturing.
Nourishing the souls of
Her people again. There are signs
That Africa wants to be the
Caretaker of the world again.
Media has become a thinking
Translation. Africa says that
She wants to free her people.
Every child is envied and loved for their innocence,
Tenderness, vertigo, how they forget
The maelstrom of life. Their occupation of washing
Their sins away bath-time or in a swimming pool.
I think back to high school with nostalgia.
How I tattooed my palms with ink.
How I wrote love letters to a boy
In whose world, I did not exist. (Would never exist).
I think of all my English teachers.
Africa, Dhana, Smith, all male, all male.
How everyone of them planted this, this
Small, magical seed within me, to write.