Posted: Friday, March 30, 2012 11:06:22 PM
I met hope blackened and bruised on the steps of a Brooklyn brownstone.
Tumbled hair bathing on an ivory ceramic shoulder
Body contouring to the zig zag mold,
her eyes turned opaque with the
nod of nostalgia.
A southern gap surrendered to the threshold theatre of a mouth.
Inhaling a ballet of fears,
and exhaling a musical of opera love and orchestra freedom.
She tried to stop me but I had something important to be,
didn’t know what exactly
but I knew it was important.
After reviving desert lips with sticky saliva
she asked me for some change.
Hope asked for change but I declined,
said I didn’t have the time,
she sucked air through yellow gritted enamel and sighed.
Then she asked me in a lullaby of a whisper
If I knew how to cry on a Sunday morning,
or if I’ve ever asked the moon how it stays white
in a sea full of darkness
Or even allowed the wind to show me
how to wrap my arms around everything I love.
When I left her I took her spine
She told me to use it to climb the spoken steps to heaven
or use it as a tight rope to balance against
a tide of tyranny or a wave of wounds
but hope gave me a spine
for my trembling flesh and shivering skin to stand tall against.
My mother she hasn’t given me much
but I take her spine everywhere I go.
She gave me strength to illuminate grimy, slum nights
She allowed me to see the God in silence
She gave me hope