Africa, inches under my fingers.
\nInvisible in my head.
\nTimeless place inside my soul.
\nGeology of DNA.
\nFirst mother in a necklace of motherhood.
\nChildren of longitude and latitude.
\nI would know Africa when I found it.
\nMy eyes an Africa sight.
\nMy voice an Africa song.<\/p>\n
But you are not Africa,
\nthey would say.
\nYou are white.
\nAnd I would say,
\nfrom traveling a solar system
\naround the earth,
\ndevoured by mountains,
\nlonely sea,
\nheld captive in dark dungeon,
\npiteous cold,
\nheart broken by incessant drum,
\nthen to be told
\nI am not a son.
\nNot the refugee of my land.
\nNot the blood that courses in me.
\nNo right to the sea shells borne
\nby tide and time.<\/p>\n
Pick up those stones of code.
\nThe fallen feathers of love.
\nThe dreams that held dreams together.
\nChildren of Africa
\nthrown over the earth.
\nStrangers to doors where they belong.
\nAfrica, inches near,
\nno wider than the hand
\nput on the place I call home,
\nand belongs to me,
\nwhite skin or not.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Africa, inches under my fingers. Invisible in my head. Timeless place inside my soul. Geology of DNA. First mother in a necklace of motherhood. Children…<\/p>\n