Scattered Tribe

I dreamt there was a band inside me,
one player bowed a bass larger
than herself, another blew
a brass horn on loan from an angel,
a third played flute—pursing
her lips, kissing each note
goodbye, lingering over some
like a lover—while children
followed her tunes, her blooms, lifted
off the ground by the music inside her magic.

I dreamt there was a parade inside me
pubescent girls carried helium balloons,
released sun-shafted rainbow streamers,
mothers stood on floats, waved
out windows of miniature houses,
held homemade signs of hope.
Ten grandmothers—all mine—
marched to the beat of a long-legged drummer,
held fast to their banner, both hands,
stitched letters of belonging, belief.

I prayed there was a fertile acre inside me
women tilled soil, planted seeds,
harvested maize, baked bread
with no yeast,
gathered kindling and firewood,
ensured the flame never died,
held a place open at every table
so all who are hungry could come and eat.
If summoned, I walk in a procession
of mourners, wailed behind a wagon.

From Blood Lines, Kelsay Books, forthcoming 2022