after Lucille Clifton
i began at the end: a slave name,
Cherokee cheekbones, a gone father, a loneliness
too lavish to be mine alone. i was a poor thing
living in the Big House, wearing money
in my hair like ribbons, watching
my grandmother dance on the master's grave.
i had five fingers on each hand
and a mother on the other side of the world
and so many hungers that would never matter
to anyone who mattered. i had no much
for a nothing. i had so much and none of it
was ever mine.
YOU ARE READING
THE TWENTY SECOND YEAR
PoetryAt birth, we are all sentenced to life- to live. Highest Rankings: #4 in poembook #4 in poemcollection © z. t. corley, 2024
