Mind

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