And we carry ours. 

Our cross is an emblem of suffering and shame, 

Pain specifically carved for us to carry. 

The wood was cut down from an old tree, 

A tree that was scrambled after by thieves.

Our cross carries memories of what it means to be less than human, 

Its lore sounds like the swishing of whips before it breaks skin, courage, and bravery. 

Our cross is embellished with charms of generational suffering: 

A gold chain that our great-great-grandfather got from barter at the slave market. 

Our great-grandmother’s wrapper, where she kept the money she got from selling her father’s land, 

To have a slice of the white man’s intelligence in her family. 

Our grandfather’s journal, where he emptied his confusion about being black and the need to be like the white man. 

Our father’s degrees and accolades, which he swore he sacrificed his entire life to get. 

Our family heirloom of a life lived on another man’s terms. 

Heavy chains of capitalism looped together by a history of compliance and resistance. 

We carry our cross as Jesus said, 

We carry our cross as the preacher said. 

We carry our cross down the aisle, in a white dress, 

The piano sounds like shrieking heavy industrial metals; old and weary, 

With thousands of eyes staring at us, 

Anticipating if we can make it to the altar.

My Mother’s Essence

There is fight in my blood. 

I am told it is from my journey across the seven seas. 

The scars on my back don’t tell half of the tale that the eye saw. 

Still, I have kept the essence of my mothers in my chest. 

It teaches me to love the earth, 

For like it, I am brown and carry the capacity for growth. 

It tells me tales of dancing around the fire under full moon nights, 

Where mothers told folklore and the men played draughts. 

It reminds me of my mother’s unyielding faith in her creator—even if he was carved of stone. 

It sings of my skin, luscious like camwood,

A beauty that shines with the luminosity of coconut oil. 

Beads on my hips and feet applaud every step I take. 

It shows me love and passion, 

A fire started by a few coy looks yet committed till the end. 

It shows me the divine feminine resting her head on the thighs of her masculine,

It shows me a society where goods were left unattended without fear. 

It shows me a time when words were oaths, 

And the fear of God made humans act decently. 

It showed me strength, 

How our men dug holes in the earth and reaped bountiful harvests, 

And our hands delicately weaved and carved,

It tells me of really sunny days and heavy rains. 

It tells me of resilience, faith, love, and duty. 

It tells me that I am enough.

Let us dance

The maidens have come out to dance tonight, 

Waist beads gyrating to the intoxicating sound of talking drums. 

Anklets are adorned on our feet, while our legs create a symphony. 

Today we celebrate in the face of uncertainty. 

They say death shall come tomorrow. 

When it comes, we shall beat the drums so loud that death will dance with us. 

We shall soak the soil with hot gin; 

Even sorrow shall be intoxicated. 

The movement of our hips will leave death entranced. 

The melodies of our voices shall pique the sun’s curiosity. 

Down it would come to shine its light on us, 

Its reflection against our skin blinding our enemies. 

Prophecy said our waists held the answers, 

So tonight we shall dance. 

We shall let joy seep into us till we are lush like dew on green leaves at dawn. 

We shall become one with our creator, 

Ushering in a new season, 

As we let waists gyrate to the beat of the drums.