Surrounded by a pomegranate orchard,
would I crave more or
sit in each moment and savor every berry?
My love calls me hasty for I bite into the flesh,
as if my plum dyed grove was barren.
The concept of abundance has always eluded me.
I yearn to take part in this collective rawness.
Feed me. Feed me. Feed me until I can consume no more.
The hunger residing in my palms can only be satisfied by this nectar.
Oh yes, let the erubescent sap heal like it’s made to.
Let it flow down my face like a seeping pipe,
going unnoticed until the damage has already completed its odyssey.
My nana raised me to know that I was made to bear fruit,
that this chest of mine wasn’t just for adornment.
I was fashioned by gospel, sweet tea, gentle hands,
sweet potato pie, collards, and Piedmont clay.
Elders used to think I would crumble into Earth
with the way leaves singing in the wind would call me.
My seeds will suckle love from my breasts
and sprout into brown children no longer afraid of the sun.
Soar babies, like the little cherubim you are!
Flutter your wings harmonically,
like the beautiful ensemble you’ve grown to be.
Your song should be impenetrable,
like the voice of God Almighty when He speaks.
Moving like water sometimes means being turbulent,
and my trudge in the stream of life is often marred by rapids.
One foot after the other, with my inner eye open.
Both arms hooked at the elbows with my ancestors,
guiding me on this journey through the middle passage.
A bridge between the high and the less high.
As above, so below. I wander the path between,
the third pillar.
When I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
my pockets are stuffed with the seeds of sanctity.
Let the erubescent sap flow like it’s meant to,
bleed freely without consequence.
Stain my clothes and palms a cardinal hue.
One day, this blood on my hands will be from new life.
Until then, I shall fear no evil.
I must keep walking,
shepherded by the Ones who came before me.