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To Black Women Who’ve Loved and Lost, But Love More
Black woman.
Your heart beats in unison with shooting stars spraying decadent skies.
Only eyes wide with graciousness, encompassing spiritual refinement that never needs replenishing, can stoically take in the horrors of wondrous pain, and not be recklessly reduced to earning it.
Black woman.
Your body was meant to produce dozens more of you with pledges to bless the earth through prolificness of verses, prayerfully pouring out of mouths during birthing.
Blackness personified in heights of God’s smooth arrow, missing the epicenter of betrayals in the world that shut Him out.
Black woman.
Your voice synchronizes with supernatural choirs, crying in step of what has been ordained without the order of things, in a shell of earth concocted to feast on the blood of ours.
Sorrow!
Shadows arrive to deliver news from scenes of crimes containing bodies you bore in communion with ancestral glass, that will shatter once and never again.
You lose half your blood supply.
You become a pile of nothingness, so light, you can float to heaven.
