for my city and my mama.
my mama’s garden is o’ growin’ bare in the place she bore me.
the weeds is ever climbing
through soil fresh and her flowers is wilting.
some summers i sat
back there
letting all the melon juice make streams down my chin
or i’d run about with Kwame or some other friend
and we could see wonder before the buildings came
and folk went.
Tanya howlin’ at the sky- screamin’ bout lyin’ Jonathan. Gary and ‘em at the school.
Special Sundays and Fridays where old Blacks played “Tunk”
and me on the stairs watchin’
and here comes Robert
and all of them is gone now.
lak de ole’ legends
and creations that granddad used to spin.
They exist in memory- lak pieces of their fuller selves in my mind
faded on.
The souless shacks is tall
and they block sun
so gardens don’t grow
and my mama is somewhere
sitting
holdin’ earth that won’t stop
sidin’ through her labored hands.
