If I add my own language to this it will only siphon away power, piercing power and words that will needle into all parts of your soul. No review, I will just use hers...
"But love, love is the armor we carried across the
borders of our broken homeland.
A hasty mix of stories that last long after the flavor
is gone, and muscle memory that overcomes even the most bitter of times.
My memory is spotted with days of laughing
until I cried or crying until I laughed -
laughter and tears are both involuntary
reactions, testaments of human expression.
So allow me to express, that if I make you laugh,
It's usually on purpose
and if I make you cry, I promise I'll still think
you are beautiful..."
--You Have a Big Imagination or 400,000 Ways to Cry
"Because what survivor hasn't had her struggle made spectacle?
Don't talk about the motherland unless you know
that being from Africa means waking up an
afterthought
in this country.
Don't talk about my flavor unless you know
that my flavor is insurrection, it is rebellion,
resistance
My flavor is mutiny
It is burden, it is grit, and it is compromise..."
---Mama
The Things She Told Me
I asked my mother to lend me her strength.
She proceeded to life an entire planet
from her back.
A pearl necklace, her wedding dress,
rubber gloves from the kitchen sink,
the shoes she wore in elementary school,
her diploma, two fistfuls of hope
and a tattered legacy of fear,
the kiss from the boy next door,
her father's walking stick,
two pence from the market,
a basket full of the finest okra,
an envelope of desert sand,
three safety pins,
one pair of sturdy khaki pants -
good for work but not for raising children -
and one pen.
She said, with a shaking voice,
Learn these things, before they teach you.
Death loves a woman, but we are still here.
And the moon is crying, or maybe singing
and the stars look down in mourning
as we melt hatred and weave compassion,
gather the waste from each body
and weld resilience.
We do this every day - make a good thing
out of nothing,
be the strong ones,
be okay even when we're not.
But today, we're more than okay,
we are women.
So, take my strength, I've got plenty.
Take my hands, I've got two.
Take my voice, let it guide you
and if it shakes, ask yourself:
when the earth shakes,
do you think that she's afraid?
That last one made me cry. I wonder if I could ask my mother to lend me her strength, what she would say...
I hope you are as moved, transformed and seized by these poems as I was.