Primer
—for Robert Hayden

They sing of strength,
of struggle and survival.
Their gospels and blues
sing of prophets
old and new,
Ezekial and Moses,
Micah and Martin,
Malcolm and Shine.
They sing in voices forgotten,
voices of the living,
voices of the dead.
When we forget,
they remember.
They raise from the dead
battered spirits,
long-suffering,
singing in the fields,
in dark nights,
in their own houses.
They do not forget.
They sing of pain,
of struggle and survival.
Their ballads and spirituals
sing of terrors
old and new,
Middle Passage,
Scottsboro, Bensonhurst.
Their songs are filled
with spirits betrayed,
cut short,
spirits of the unnatural
dead, children
of Harlem and Birmingham.
They raise from the living
battered spirits
of justice,
singing in the streets,
in long nights,
in their own houses.
They do not forget.
They sing of new worlds,
of struggle and survival.
Their poems and prayers
sing of worlds
of color,
Rainbow worlds,
growing to Black,
the sum of all colors.
They sing in voices
remembered, voices
everlasting, voices
ringing with freedom,
Toomer and Walker,
Harper and Hayden.
They raise from the dying
battered spirits
of hope, singing
in classrooms, in churches,
in their own houses.
They will not forget.

**

Soundings
—for Nikki and Lucille

I love how loud black folk
allow themselves to be,
unafraid, daring, almost defiant
of those who might say, Hush,
or whisper, What a shame,
behind sidelong glances
or clearing of throats.
I’ve been in churches
where the level of faith
seemed measured in volume,
in homes where walls
were made to be talked through,
no privacy or isolation,
no feelings left unvoiced.
I’ve been with friends
whose laughter rang loud
above my own almost-whispered
musings, who announced,
pronounced and denounced without
fear of shame or reprisal.
In a room full of women
all darker, louder, bolder
than I, I sit alone,
quiet and white,
wondering why my own tongue
refuses to unleash itself,
wondering how long voices
must be suppressed, how long
free to finally sing
with such wondrous alarm.

**

In Which the Poet Speaks as a Sixth-Grade Classmate

This is a poem for Miss Mary
Meacham, who in the 6th grade
at Western Harnett Middle School
told me I used the wrong words,
the wrong spelling, the wrong
ways of putting sentences
together, who told me
I couldn’t talk right,
couldn’t be right about anything,
who made me sit first
in the front of the class
and then in the back
of the class because
(though she never out and out
said it) because
(though it was always clear enough)
I had the wrong skin,
the wrong color, the wrong
hair, the wrong name,
the wrong mama always
teaching me the wrong things.
This is a poem for Miss Mary
Meacham, a black woman trying
to be as white as she could be
and trying to make me
as white as she.
This is a poem for Miss Mary
Meacham who was wrong
to tell me I was wrong
because now I know
my skin ain’t wrong
my color ain’t wrong
my hair and my clothes ain’t wrong
my words ain’t wrong
my name ain’t wrong
and my mama ain’t never been wrong.
And in fact the only thing
wrong about me is how long
I waited to say this
when I should’ve been saying
it to her face all along.