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


holdin’ earth that won’t stop

sidin’ through her labored hands.

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