Minerals I am Made of

I’m afraid.

I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing,

of being misunderstood.

I’m afraid 

the pearl will never form inside this shell. 

The minerals I am made of—

how will they solidify

my pittance of wisdom,

bring forth the revolution?

But these are the fears 

of a caucasian 

the world-is-my-oyster crustacean,

of a white 



I have traveled,

I have written,

I have swam in ocean’s waters

while fires burned. 

While hands and hearts lay bare

on the anvil of inequality, 

I have tumbled around carelessly on sand. 

The minerals I am made of—

they will never formulate

into the great

if my goal is to get it right.

Forget it. Here goes . . .

I wasn’t there when the First Fathers

did what they did

to keep their position, 

when the fires of injustice were forged. 

But aren’t I here now? 

Aren’t I a Mama? 

Don’t I know what the Fathers forgot? 

Don’t I know that the softest 

mineral in me

is the thing that moves

gives life

breathes in between



mind blowing


Aren’t I a Mama

with the minerals of every next thing

metabolizing in me


my speech 

and the manner of my movement?

Aren’t I a Mama

who heard the call . . . 

Mama! Mama!

and don’t I know

we will all

answer the call 

with minerals manifold.

Oh, Mother. 

My minerals remember.