I am not African
We need new names.
I am that Odum wood
the carpenter saws
for Darling’s bed.
See that Jacaranda popping
petals of lavender and grace?
I am that green branch
bending the back of a butterfly
asking, asking
if the skies have shaken
hands for rain to fall,
and grass to sprout.
I have only known the red sand
behind my grandmother’s garden,
the silver dove sitting under the moon.
If Mercy
I often see a man
like Moses on my street.
He carries a crooked
stick. His beard is oiled
with the scent of blood
and his feet are covered
with leprosy.
They say he is mad,
speaks in Tongues
men fear to translate.
But I hear him,
the cadence of his words.
He asks, Are you there, God?
Am I here again to save?
