Black women keep secrets tied up in hankies they stuff in their bras, secrets of how their necks are connected to their spines in the precise gyration of a jelly sweetened in nights they had to keep to themselves, nights prowlers came in to change the faces of their children, secrets like the good googa mooga
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I am a city of bones deep inside my marrow, a song in electric chords, decrescendo to mute, rise to white noise, half silences in a blank harmony as all comes to nothing, my eyes the central fire of my soul, yellow, orange, red—gone in an instant and then back when I am, for a glimpse, as precise as a bird’s breath, when I am perfect, undone by hope when hope will not listen, the moon wasting to where I need not worry that bones turn to ash, a brittle staccato in dust.
Afaa Michael Weaver
Born in 1951, Afaa Michael Weaver is the author of several collections of poetry, including City of Eternal Spring (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2014), and a full length play.