A Letter to the Beckoned
Perching pecking against the wind,
The mother cries at the separation from her child.
Her wails flutter the rafters and the blades.
It is home to both of them but for one it is The only home they’ve ever known.
I can’t sleep here. I can’t eat here. I can’t breathe here.
Will the singing ever return to me?
Show up in the face of this dichotomy.
Within the lines inside of this Wendy’s parking lot, Reverberating inside of the hollow drum
Carved out of her dreams.
I must grab the gun before my existence continues to be erased.
Self-leaning self-helping self-loving, Until we start to run mad.
One foot after the other with the Weight of this country on my back, Beckoned by Hart-Cellar of 1965.
And if I attempt to cocoon in the cracks of freedom, There you are
In the azaleas of Cape Coast, And the orchids of Oaxaca.
From soil to ear
Rejoicing the existence of you my sister.
The silence shines through the clouds.
Brightly against the iniquity of evil.
Foreword written by
Rukevwe Aror