BLACK PEARL
Heart-shaped Africa is the axis of my ancestral roots.
I am a black pearl mixed with the dust of
a violet moon and brown sugar baptized in fire.
My rose-purple lips praise the faith of my
Great grandmothers whose heartstrings never
Cracked when singing the Black Folk’s blues.
My voice is the bitter cry of many oceans
And crossroads. My tears are uprooted trees
Longing for sacred firewater. My soul is
Entombed with the allure of lavender
Pouring from the gifts of dawn.
I have torn down that massive veil
Which made me feel my existence
Was once a problem. I will not bend.
Be harnessed. Kept silent. Be forbidden
To bear my own fruits or to dance
With the constellations.
My story will be told without the putrid
Disgust of hatred. Africa did not make
An outcast out of me. Why does
My Blackness still petrify you!
Am I not the first daughter of the night?
The blues is not seeing you;
Not drinking the sap of that ancient religion,
life.
Bravo to the blues that fuels the flame,
bravo to your earthly figure
that lures me and lifts me,
to the wind that drives you.
For the wind, my mantra,
for me, your lips that lead me,
your mouth that crosses the geography of my body.
Not kissing you is blues,
the faraway sea of the south is the blues,
the journey without your kiss.