Look through the grated screen,
past the blurred condensation,
beyond the browning leaves of an ancient tree,
to the blue sky's atmosphere,
where we have always and only lived,
in this single and lonely realm.
My ancestors leave me alone,
I know they can't speak to me.
I know black feminists speak to theirs,
the same sense of spirituality I couldn't become heir.
Ownership of other's beliefs I do not seek,
nor a single and solitary truth,
Why would I want to summon the dead?
Yet mothered by the greatest I stangate in bed,
with growing dread.
Wishing to emulate a life you once lead,
Wondering how the turmoil of 1968 gave you breath.
Remarked as a year with deadly tolls,
You emerged in a harsh home,
little did the world predict your success.
Success,
A word weighed on me by the respect of my parents.
Or maybe a parent,
a parent who maybe,
bases their success,
on the luck of their baby.
So let's call it a draw,
cause as of lately,
I've lost some flaws,
and you got the job.
But we share success,
Above the influence we both stay true.
As my greatest pride,
Is being the triumph of you.