My Mother Myself

When you look in the mirror,

What do you see?

A Black woman, big and bad,

Too strong, too loud, too much?

Hair too nappy, nose too broad,

Or do you see the eyes

That have held back a million tears

For dreams deferred, defiled or denied

Left to die and rot away

In some dusty storeroom behind those eyes?

Do your full lips speak of Africa? 

Of your far away but still remembered home

Where your dark skin glistened in the sum?

Do they form words  in a foreign tongue

As you tell your story

Or argue again

For your voice to be heard?

And yet again, yet again,

Does your tongue make the same arguments

As it longs to be free to sing?

Do you see broad hips

That carried your children

Round buttocks and thighs, smooth continents

That promise pleasure and deliver more?

Do you know that your chocolate-coloured nipples

Provide nourishment and sweet delight?

And your waist encloses a spine

That has carried you straight and sure

Through all of life’s trials –

Do you see?  Do you see?

Your feet that marched and trod

And carried you

And sometimes danced?

Your shoulders are tired now, they need to rest. 

Will you wrap them with rainbow colours of joy and laughter

Or soft, pale green of peace and calm? 

And as you put yourself away for the night,

Will you dream of your beauty?

 Copyright © Zhana 2003

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED