everywhere I go in my dreams,

I ‘ve been an old woman,

a goat, a slave, then I am young

Phillis Wheatley, reading wa-a-y before my time

on the precipice of tiny clad-anchors, holding mighty ships

together, the bit in a horse’s mouth carrying precious cargo by the saddle,

sobbing up direction,

relics of fleshy-pound clay.  Sutures of umbilical cord strung long lineages/women spilling into children- children spilling into themselves – themselves spilling back into graves

laughter hanging out with baptist…

post-slavery we-free-people – still understanding freedom/exhausted/spoiled on another mans’ misfortunes

that freedom might not have been an understatement – blue haze/ built in-spoon

making revolution /never been pretty in pink

dress for the ball.

smell death coming/running/trying to get the blood out the bone/

running/moving up yonder/playing song and shadow

kindness sis krissy