for Simone
Momma’s dancing today
between two hospital rooms.
In one, her daughter
the other, her son—
dual chambers of her heart.
She’s shuckin and jivin
to make her children merry.
Only, there’s no ripening here
not yet—the corn is too young on the cob
these tender shoots have yet to grow.
It’s not under the massa’s whip
that she’s moving. Another killer
—this rare genetic disorder—
came ducking and diving across
deep oceans, vast continents
bloodlines too tangled to decipher.
A crash cart stands on the corridor
but Momma’s got her own thing going:
looks like she’s just soft-shoein
but she’s stepping down demons
crushing her fear that things
could go wrong;
clearing the air for blessings long due
from the prayers of the mothers
grandmothers who knew
that the shuckin and jivin
could divert the devil
bamboozle the enemy
while the real dance went on.
So, yes, Momma’s dancing
shifting the space
following the sound
of the old folks singing
deliverance songs
where the meek are the blessed
and the weak are made strong.
Dance, Momma, dance.
The earth will remember
the praise in your footsteps.
The ripening will come
and your heart will rejoice.