I often dream of my grandmother
She sits in a rocking chair,
Trying to utter words that can’t escape.
Her hair crowned in gold
White like stars
Hair that licks up to touch the sky,
To touch heaven.
Weaved by angel hands,
And skin, tan and
Willowy like papyrus.
Her mouth rounds in foreign words
She chokes
Finally, she hisses out in anglo-language
Run
And I am gone
I often dream of rocking,
Like the chair of that of my grandmother
Ancient as stone-
Ancient as merchant ships with
Precious cargo
It taste like blood
Like iron
Like bondage
I wake up to sleep,
I dream again
I dream of her
She brings out shears of deer bone
Wraps my locks around her needle hands
hush , hush
She whispers as she severs my soul
Her words are thin in
muddled language
I don’t understand,
I can’t.
It is too far gone.
Ancestorsancestorsancestors
A mantra-
Have I failed?
They clasp my arms-they say,
“Lift your head”
“We crown you in the sweet laurels of victory.
We clasp gold around your neck.
We tie the webs of stories around your wrist.
We weave your hair with angel hands”
I tear the bottom of my dress
I tie my locks back in the fabric
My hair that licks up to the sky
That lifts up to heaven
It is weaved in victory
I am made in resilience.
-for my nana: who teaches and takes
About the Creator
Rose .
Hello! I love writing and sharing my work with the world! Thanks for engaging with me through my words.
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