things left growin’ bare.

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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s