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children when they ask you why your mama so funny say she is a poet she don't have no sense
My Mama Moved Among the Days My Mama moved among the days like a dreamwalker in a field; seemed like what she touched was here seemed like what touched her couldn't hold, she got us almost through the high grass then seemed like she turned around and ran right back in right back on in
if i should enter the house and speak with my own voice, at last, about its awful furnitutre, pulling apart the covering over the dusty bodies; the randy father, the husband holding ice in his hand like a blessing, the mother bleeding into herself and the small imploding girl, i say if i should walk into that web, who will come flying after me, leaping tall buildings? you?
I remember standing there on stage in my new Christmas dress, trying not to cry as the church members smiled, nodded and murmured encouragement from the front row. "Go 'head, baby." "Say it now, Luc." "Come on now, baby" But I couldn't remember, and to hide my deep humiliation, my embarassment, I became sullen, angry. "I don' wanna." And I stood there with my mouth poked out. It was a scandal! This fresh young nobody baby standing in front of the Lord in His own house talking about what she don't want! I could feel the disapproval pouring over my new dress. Then, like a great tidal wave from the ocean of God, my sanctified mother poured down the Baptist aisle, huge as love, her hand outstretched toward mine. "Come on, baby," she smiled, then turned to address the church: "She don't have to do nothing she don't want to do." And I was at the same time empowered and made free. . . .
