Ma would always tell me
’Bout when her grandpapa was young,
’Bout how he was hauled over the horizon
Into the twilight;
Into the treacherous depths of trials and misery,
Like a seedling dug out of the fertile ground,
Or an embryo snatched from the womb,
Forcefully.
Ma would always proclaim with reverence
That Great Grandpapa was shackled,
Sailing foreign waters for months galore,
And only ’cause of his endurance,
He put his African foot on foreign shore,
Set his African eyes on foreign sunrise,
Expectantly.
Ma would always preach with pride
How her grandpapa slaved for countless years
On the white man’s plantation;
How he sacrificed both blood and tears
As oft as he was beaten;
And Ma would also impale me with
Talk ’bout how African veins stretched with relief
On the eve of emancipation;
How, after prolonged eons of gloom and grief,
Liberty was coming with the golden, now-familiar sunrise,
And Great Grandpapa was,
Eagerly,
Going beyond with the breaking dawn
To restart life…
Going beyond,
To restart as that seedling, blossoming
Out of the soils of patience;
Going beyond,
To restart as that unfinished embryo,
And be reincarnated,
Out of the womb of diligence.
Copyright © 2009 by Mariella Rivas
