I call for you cultivation of strength in the dark.
Dark gardening
in the vertigo cold.
in the hot paralysis.
Under the wolves and coyotes of particular silences.
Where it is dry.
Where it is dry.
I call for you
cultivation of victory Over
long blows that you want to give and blows you are going to get.

Over
what wants to crumble you down, to sicken
you. I call for you
cultivation of strength to heal and enhance
in the non-cheering dark,
in the many many mornings-after;
in the chalk and choke.

They eat beans mostly, this old yellow pair.
Dinner is a casual affair.
Plain chipware on a plain and creaking wood,
Tin flatware.

Two who are Mostly Good.
Two who have lived their day,
But keep on putting on their clothes
And putting things away.

And remembering . . .
Remembering, with twinklings and twinges,
As they lean over the beans in their rented back room that
          is full of beads and receipts and dolls and cloths,
          tobacco crumbs, vases and fringes.

My Mama moved among the days
like a dreamwalker in a field;
seemed like what she touched was hers
seemed like what touched her couldn’t hold,
she got us almost through the high grass
then seemed like she turned around and ran
right back in
right back on in

I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired 

           She meant

                      No more turned cheek

                      No more patience for the obstruction

                      of black woman’s right to vote

                      & plant & feed her family

           She meant

                      Equality will cost you your luxurious life

                      If a Black woman can’t vote

                      If a brown baby can’t be fed

                      If we all don’t have the same opportunity America promised

           She meant

                      Ain’t no mountain boulder enough

                      to wan off a determined woman

           She meant

                      Here

           Look at my hands

                      Each palm holds a history

                      of the 16 shots that chased me

                      harm free from a plantation shack

           Look at my eyes

                      Both these are windows

                      these little lights of mine

           She meant

                      Nothing but death can stop me

                      from marching out a jail cell still a free woman

           She meant

                      Nothing but death can stop me from running for Congress

           She meant

                      No black jack beating will stop my feet from working

                      & my heart from swelling

                      & my mouth from praying

           She meant

                      America! you will learn freedom feels like

                      butter beans, potatoes & cotton seeds

                      picked by my sturdy hands

           She meant

           Look

           Victoria Gray, Anna Divine & Me

           In our rightful seats on the house floor

           She meant  

                      Until my children

                      & my children’s children

                      & they babies too

                      can March & vote

                      & get back in interest

                      what was planted

                      in this blessed land



           She meant

                      I ain’t stopping America

                      I ain’t stopping America

Not even death can take away from my woman’s hands

what I’ve rightfully earned