The fabrics of my skirt

rustle softly

in the light summer breeze.

bright patchwork rivaling the suns rays.


I imagine this is what they must have looked like,

the patterned cloths that adorned the black bodies

of my ancestors.

fancy that.


I stroll upright and proud

through the newly paved streets

parasol and fan in hand.

I do it like them.


They cut their eyes at me and snarl

"Who does she think she is?"

behind delicately laced fans.


The answer always strikes me as obvious

It's not who I think I am,

Come monday I will still

wash the dishes and mop the floors for pennies


It's what I know I am

that keeps me upright.

I am my own.

I am, dare I say it,

free.


The word balms my soul,

Sends lightning through my bones.

I pull it up onto my tongue and

roll it smoothly and coolly round my mouth.

free.

f r e e

F      R      E       E

free as a bird, free as a bee


Though my path is uncertain

and the livelihood no longer secure

I would rather feverishly toil to earn my keep

than return to the shackles of the faceless black sheep


with a twist of my heel

I stride off again

and let the sun swallow me whole

no longer will the dark shadow of oppression extinguish

my soul.