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Dave Bonta
wakened clock
not a minute’s space between
news of hurt
beer and cheer and howl
form a neighborhood
the company of kin and others
a bland plenty
but so much hurt
in an ugly mouth
that sings like a glass ruin
of the church
so hard to banish
all nonconformists
The sky hangs heavy tonight
Like the hair of a Negro woman.
The scars of the moon are curved
Like the wrinkles on the brow of a Negro woman.
The stars twinkle tonight
Like the glaze in a Negro woman’s eyes,
Drinking the tears set flowing by an aging hurt
Gnawing at her heart.
The earth trembles tonight
Like the quiver of a Negro woman’s eye-lids cupping tears.