Free Shake Loose My Skin by Sonia Sanchez

Kwa mama zetu waliotuzaa *
    death is a five o’clock door forever changing time.
    and it was morning without sun or shadow;
a morning already afternoon. sky. cloudy with incense.
    and it was morning male in speech;
feminine in memory.
    but i am speaking of everyday occurrences:
of days unrolling bandages for civilized wounds;
of gaudy women chanting rituals under a waterfall of stars;
of men freezing their sperms in diamond-studded wombs;
of children abandoned to a curfew of marble.
    as morning is the same as nite death and life are one.
    spring. settling down on you like
green dust. mother. ambushed by pain in
rooms bloated with a century of cancer.
yo/face a scattered cry from queequeg’s wooden bier.
    mother. i call out to you
traveling up the congo. i am preparing a place for you:
    nite made of female rain
i am ready to sing her song
prepare a place for her
she comes to you out of turquoise pain.
    restring her eyes for me
restring her body for me
restring her peace for me
    no longer full of pain, may she walk
bright with orange smiles, may she walk
as it was long ago, may she walk
    abundant with lightning steps, may she walk
abundant with green trails, may she walk
abundant with rainbows, may she walk
as it was long ago, may she walk
    at the center of death is birth.
in those days when amherst fertilized by
black myths, rerouted the nile.
you became the word. (shirley, graham, du bois
            you were the dance
      pyramidal sister.
you told us in what egypt our feet
were chained
    you. trained in the world’s studio
painted the day with palaces
and before you marched the breath
of our ancestors.
          and yo/laughter passing
through a village of blacks
scattered the dead faces.
          and yo/voice lingering
like a shy goat fed our sad hungers.
and i. what Pennsylvania day was i sucking dry
while you stuttering a thousand cries
hung yo/breasts on pagodas?
and i. what dreams had i suspended
above our short order lives
when death showered you with bells.
    call her back for me
bells. call back this memory
still fresh with cactus pain.
    call her name again. bells.
shirley. graham. du bois
has died in china
and her death demands a capsizing of tides.
    olokun. †
    she is passing yo/way while
    pilgrim waves whistle complaints to man
    olokun.
    a bearer of roots is walking inside
of you.
    prepare the morning nets to receive her.
    before her peace, i know no thirst because of her
behind her peace, i know beauty because of her
under her peace, i know no fear because of her
over her peace, i am wealthy because of her
    death is coming. the whole world hears
the buffalo walk of death passing thru the
archway of new life.
    the day is singing
the day is singing
he is singing in the mountains
    the nite is singing
the nite is singing
she is singing in the earth
    i am circling new boundaries
i have been trailing the ornamental
songs of death (life
a strong pine tree
dancing in the wind
    i inhale the ancient black breath
cry for every dying (living
creature
    come. let us ascend from the
middle of our breath
sacred rhythms
inhaling peace.
    * for our mothers who gave us birth
    † Goddess of the sea



“Just Don’t Never Give Up on Love”
    Feeling tired that day, I came to the park with the children. I saw her as I rounded the corner, sitting old as stale beer on the bench, ruminating on some uneventful past. And I thought, “Hell. No rap from the roots today. I need the present. On this day. This Monday. This July day buckling me under her summer wings, I need more than old words for my body to squeeze into.”
    I sat down at the far end of the bench, draping my legs over the edge, baring my back to time and time unwell spent. I screamed to the children to watch those curves threatening their youth as they rode their 10-speed bikes against midwestern rhythms.
    I opened my book and began to write. They were coming again, those words insistent as his hands had been, pounding inside me, demanding their