Mother, I didn’t mean to slight you but

it wasn’t you that I adored. 

You hid your energy in shadows 

and I was dazzled by the sun. 

 

I idolized the one whose voice soared to prophetic heights, 

whose words rejuvenated epics of the ages. Some fine June Sundays, 

slender and magnificent in morning coat, he would electrify the pulpit 

with eloquent pronouncements of doom and glory so divine 

the very gates of heaven seemed to part, bathing the atmosphere in crystal light. 

Seeking his favor, I rehearsed raising my hand like his in benediction, 

earning the childhood name of Preacher, shortened in time to Prete. 

 

You gave us daily sustenance but there was never 

a choir’s fanfare or the soulbeat of the mighty to grant applause. 

You baked the bread for which we seldom thanked you, 

canned pears for winter and mended Depression-weary clothes, 

scrubbing sheets on a washboard, humming hymns to lift your sagging spirit, 

and cultivating beauty in endless flower pots. 

The summer when he toured the streets of ancient Palestine and Rome, 

you consoled yourself by painting pictures of the Appian Way 

using the kitchen table for an easel. 

You coached me with my homework, rejoiced 

in my small triumphs and prepared me to confront the enemy, 

tapping your umbrella against my fifth grade teacher’s desk 

to punctuate your firm demand for justice. I didn’t recognize 

your subtle power that led me through blind, airless caves, 

your quiet elegance that taught me dignity – nor could I know 

the wind that bore him high into the sunlight 

emanated from your breath. I didn’t want your journey, 

rebelled against your sober ways. 

 

But I have walked through my own shadows and, like you, 

transcended glitter. I have learned 

that I am source and substance of a different kind of light. 

 

Now when they say I look like you and tell me 

that I have deepened to your wisdom, softened 

to your easy grace, I claim my place with honor 

in that court of dusky queens whose strength and beauty 

invented suns that others only borrow. And Mother, 

I am glad to be your child.

I hardly remember my mother’s face now, 

But I still feel 

At my bosom a chill’d wind 

Stirring strange longings for the sturdy back 

I used to lean against for warmth and comfort 

when I had grown too tall to ride.

 

And I am blinded by 

The glint of sunlight 

Striking golden fire from the flint 

Of seafoamed rocks below me 

On some island not too far from home.

 

After that, the only light I saw 

Was a few wayward chinks of day 

That somehow slanted into the airless tomb 

Where chains confined me motionless to a dank wall.

 

Then the sun died and time went out completely.

In that new putrid helltrap of the dead 

And dying, the stench 

Of vomit, sweat, and feces 

Mingled with the queasy motion 

Of the ship until my senses failed me. . . .

 

I do not know how many weeks or months 

I neither thought nor felt, but I awoke 

One night – or day, perhaps – 

Revived by consciousness of sound. 

I heard 

The pounding of the waves against the shipside 

And made believe its rhythm

 

Was the speech of tribal drums 

Summoning in acute need the spirit 

Of my ancestors. I dreamed I saw 

Their carven images arrayed 

In ceremonial austerity. I thought I heard 

Their voices thundering an answer 

To my supplication: “Hold fast, 

Sur/vive sur/vive sur/vive!”

 

Once more the sunlight came, but not the same 

As I remembered it. 

Now it sat silver-cold 

Upon the indifferent New England coast. 

Still It was good to see the sun at all. 

And it was something 

To find myself the bright dark mascot 

Of a blind but well-intentioned host – 

A toy, a curiosity, a child 

Taking delight in anyone’s attention 

After so long a death.

 

As I grew older, it was not enough. 

The native lifesong once against burst free, 

Spilled over sands of my acquired rituals – 

Urged me to match the tribal rhythms 

That had so long sustained me, that must 

sustain me still. I learned to sing 

A dual song:

 

My fathers will forgive me if I lie 

For they instructed me to live, not die. 

“Grief cannot compensate for what is lost,” 

They told me. “Win, and never mind the cost. 

Show to the world the face the world would see: 

Be slave, be pet, conceal your Self – but be.”

 

Lurking behind the docile Christian lamb,

Unconquered lioness asserts: “I am!”