Africa made Diaspora with soul,
A mystic brew,
Lineage descending from
Witches and rice grains
And promises of freedom.
Africa baptized Diaspora in moonshine,
Numbing her to all coins of the lily-white dominion,
Affirming that no form of currency
Is worth her diamond-toothed grin from
Those lips, thanking the heavens for
Her voice cotton soft,
Over the heads of her people.
Her voice is home,
A buzzing cicada in
Africa does not curtsy with southern belle garments,
Or even breathes near diabolic symbols of black servitude.
A black and velvet silhouette,
A mystery against colonial wash.
Africa did not spawn Diaspora from
Loam and fresh water spout
To entertain, but to nourish,
Watering the land and all
Parts with her tears,
Breaking the sticks of her spine
To preserve and protect.
Her heart, blue.
An azure fog hovers over her,
Tears sharing the same hue.
She’s blue, discolored like the bruises lacing her cheeks,
Blue like the ghetto
When Africa’s wearied skin soon became of sandpaper,
And her body became a colony,
Still here, but forgotten,
She whispered to Diaspora
About the history of the world,
How she came before they,
How she cried and howled and sang for us,
Her tears watering the seeds so her sons and daughters
Could see past saltwater expedition
And return to the Motherland.
Africa sang Diaspora into a delicate sleep,
Swing low sweet chariot,
Comin’ for me to carry you home.
Slowly returning back to the soil.