I’m afraid.
I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing,
of being misunderstood.
I’m afraid
the pearl will never form inside this shell.
The minerals I am made of—
how will they solidify
my pittance of wisdom,
bring forth the revolution?
But these are the fears
of a caucasian
the world-is-my-oyster crustacean,
of a white
female
homemaker.
I have traveled,
I have written,
I have swam in ocean’s waters
while fires burned.
While hands and hearts lay bare
on the anvil of inequality,
I have tumbled around carelessly on sand.
The minerals I am made of—
they will never formulate
into the great
if my goal is to get it right.
Forget it. Here goes . . .
I wasn’t there when the First Fathers
did what they did
to keep their position,
when the fires of injustice were forged.
But aren’t I here now?
Aren’t I a Mama?
Don’t I know what the Fathers forgot?
Don’t I know that the softest
mineral in me
is the thing that moves
gives life
breathes in between
spaces
unknowing
mind blowing
pearls.
Aren’t I a Mama
with the minerals of every next thing
metabolizing in me
mobilizing
my speech
and the manner of my movement?
Aren’t I a Mama
who heard the call . . .
Mama! Mama!
and don’t I know
we will all
answer the call
with minerals manifold.
Oh, Mother.
My minerals remember.