What will they make of our bones,

Black & beautiful & identified
as woman?

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Will they replant us and recycle our magic

Will we grow into a new familiar strange

                    american fruit?

 

Will they finally eat us, whole.

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Crack us open like a walnut on Christmas

Will we finally be recognized for the gift

we are to the world?

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When we are dead, will skeletons
File into a formation of forgiveness, reverence?

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Will they return our bones to our children?

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So we can bury their memories in an unmarked grave

I imagine Alice Walker triumphantly coming for Zora

Digging her out of that dirt, with body of work
still bursting with breath

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Who will come

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Who will come

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Who will come

 

for the rest of us?

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