She lay, skin down on the moist dirt,
the cane rake rustling
with the whispers of leaves, and
loud longing of hounds and
the ransack of hunters crackling the
near branches.
She muttered, lifting her head a nod
toward freedom,
I shall not, I shall not be moved.
She gathered her babies,
their tears slick as oil on black
faces,
their young eyes canvassing mornings of
madness.
Momma, is Master going to sell you
from us tomorrow?
Yes.
Unless you keep walking more and
talking less.
Yes.
Unless the keeper of our lives
releases me from all commandments.
Yes.
And your lives,
never mine to live
will be executed upon the killing floor
of innocents.
Unless you match my heart and
words
saying with me.
I shall not be moved.
In Virginia tobacco fields,
leaning into the curve of Steinway
pianos, along Arkansas roads,
in the red hills of Georgia,
into the palms of her chained hands,
she
cried against calamity,
You have tried to destroy me
and though I perish daily,
I shall not be moved.
Her universe, often
summarized into one black body
falling finally from the tree to her
feet,
made her cry each time in a new voice.
All my past hastens to defeat,
and strangers claim the glory of my
love,
Iniquity has bound me to his bed,
yet, I must not be moved.
She heard the names
swirling ribbons in the wind of
history:
nigger, nigger bitch, heifer,
mammy, property, creature, ape, baboon,
whore, hot tail, thing, it.
She said, But my description cannot
fit your tongue, for
I have a certain way of being in this
world,
and I shall not, I shall not be
moved.
No angel stretched protecting wings
above the heads of her children,
fluttering and urging the winds of
reason
into the confusion of their lives.
They sprouted like young weed,
but she could not shield their growth
from the grinding blades of ignorance,
nor
shape them into symbolic topiaries.
She sent them away,
underground, overland, in coaches and
shoeless
|
when you learn, teach.
When you get, give.
As for me,
I shall not be moved.
She stood in midocean, seeking dry
land.
She searched God's face.
Assured,
she placed her fire of service
on the altar, and though
clothed in the finery of faith
when she appeared at the temple door
no sign welcomed
Black Grandmother. Enter here.
Into the Crashing sound
into wickedness, she cried,
No one, no, nor no one million
ones dare deny me God. I go forth
alone, and stand as ten thousand.
The Divine upon my right
impels me to pull forever
at the latch on Freedom's gate.
The Holy Spirit upon my left leads
my
feet without ceasing into the camp of
the
righteous and into the tents of the
free.
These momma faces, lemon-yellow,
plum purple,
honey-brown, have grimaced and twisted
down a pyramid of years.
She is Sheba and Sojourner,
Harriet and Zora
Mary Bethune and Angela
Annie to Zenobia.
She stands
before the abortion clinic,
confounded by the lack of choices.
In the Welfare line,
reduced to the pity of handouts.
Ordained in the pulpit, shielded
by the mysteries.
In the operating room,
husbanding life.
In the choir loft,
holding God in her throat.
On lonely street corners
Hawking her body.
In the classroom, loving the
children to understanding.
Centered on the world's stage
she sings to her loves and beloveds,
to her foes and detractors:
However I am perceived and deceived,
However my ignorance and conceits
law aside your fear that I will be
undone,
for I shall not be moved. |
