the Black girl

i would love to speak to the Black girl.

Not from the pages of ghetto fiction.

Not under the lid of an eye roll.

Not followed by a raunchy remark as she walks by.

Not with a prison-toned fist.

Not blanketed in questions about her hair.

Not with a masked fear that she will discover who she is

at any minute and start to glow.

i would love to talk to the Black girl.

To her soul. To help her know.

“i can’t hear anythin

but maddening screams

& the soft strains of death

& you promised me

you promised me…

somebody/anybody

sing a black girl’s song

bring her out

to know herself

to know you

but sing her rhythms

carin/ struggle/ hard times

sing her song of life

she’s been dead so long

closed in silence so long

she doesn’t know the sound

of her own voice

her infinite beauty

she’s half-notes scattered

without rhythm/ no tune

sing her sighs

sing the song of her possibilities

sing a righteous gospel

let her be born

let her be born

& handled warmly”