CROSSINGS
-of the atlantic ocean
indian ocean
dead seas of unconcious evolution
thru meridians of survival
against traffic at the corner of church and flatbush
dragging our baggage and burden
our crucifications and resurrections
our praise songs reduced to work songs
that echo a strange jubilation
a defiant expectation-
despite the way we are overrun by the
the middle passage
the mason dixon line
the durability in the slave quarters
of belmont circular road
and trenchtown
their quaint wood work,
a clinging vine of antiquated architecture.
lattice works of intricate wood
winding around shotgun houses,
like the commonality of scarring on shackled feet
body to body to body
nestled so close that tears on your pillow
soaked into my bed
indistinct lines of blended culture and hybrid tongues
in this delicate death dance of dashiki patterns
between folds of sari skirt
all the lines
break -
these ancestors echoed
dense ryhthms
their conviction
of our footsteps
they sounded the caveat call of our coming
-if a cadence and gychee wisdoms
of patience and time;
of durability and passing
shango power baptized believers in
divination across bodies of water
that hold our stories
despite crossing great divides
small, island sounds
mixed into big city beats
and all accents sound like mother continent
roll wide as pacific waves, deep as ska beats and broad
as broadway
42nd street
grand concourse
fulton street
this fostered promise land
is not mecca, el dorado, serengeti;
is not home.
is a tight construct of dream and nightmare
of calculation and urgency
it is callow and ephemeral;
only a flirtation with humanity
with is unsupported truths,
its well imagined reality.
we have crossed the oceans and continents of earth
to find ourselves lost on these littered shores
whose faults have sifted countless times
beneath our feet
-and crossed sound barriers
sucking creole tongues into our mouths
we have crossed tresholds of pain
shrugging the shrouds of scar tissue from our backs,
crossed the divides of loss
to commune with loved ones
come to know them as ancestors
understood ourselves as one.
we have crossed blood-inked pages
worded with stolen histories,
recaptured joy and taught each other truth.
we crossed narrow broken roads
to know our possibility
to survive the horror of this reality
and now we are loathe to turn our backs
to retrace our crossings,
to admit any single defeat.
these jpourney have readied us,
these middle passages return to us
the jubilation
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