It takes more than good intentions to transform the South. It takes money.
What the hell is a Scalawag?
The Ancestral Wombyn
I will always remember the tug-of-war
split me into the dam that ushered in
my children; the women in my family
have felt this pressure
squeeze between their thighs—
diamonds have bled this way.
My children used to feel me humming
in the stories passed down
like scripture. Now I weep
in the bones for them, language inaudible,
my pain translated into silence—They forgot
what I've gifted them, don't know that I've
always birthed free children
by way of my figure, curves of a
drinking gourd, my babies
a genesis every time.
But now I witness them loosened at the limbs,
scattered across the pavements, shoved into caskets—
every flower plucked from me like a casualty
too many whiteflies in the dirt.
Whispers From the Womb
offers you the space &
realizes you will not be
the ritualistic breathing that ushers her into
a series of hallelujahs, never able to feel
the praise pass through her
watches you become the amen instead.