thrum of morning
july 2020

Nestled in grassroots enlightenment

I've learnt to search backwards,

ask my foremothers where to look for the sun.

It's in the pages.

The books tell us either true or disguised

of their tired outrage and how they carried it

forth in their bellies and on their spines.

You might trip into feeling

you have invented the rage, there

on the edge of your ego. You might think

the dawn that swells within

belongs to you. 

It does not. It was the cadence

of their voices that made us

turn to the horizon and wait

for the thrum of morning.

This is how they remind us.

We are black as ink and you

cannot write the histories

without us.