History

There are some of us who can touch our history with our fingertips.

Running our hands over once smooth skin that now has gentle peaks and valleys
We trace a story from the skin
Rubbing it like a lamp to evoke the genie of the narrative

In the gentleness of the moment
Is the illumination of the truth of the woman
Who is now more than one woman
Uniquely herself and representative of all

She who had no say and took the beating
Became she who dreamed of more and of better
Became she who whispers dreams as a sower on a plantation
Where they could take root and grow grow grow

And then beyond her
Beyond me
Stands a vision of triumphant beauty
Who will have a say
Whose words will be iron fists clanging the bell
Molding the clay of the world
Extra weighty with the collective strength of her and her before her and her before her

Such is the history in clasped hand
In a watery cloudy eye
In a resolute back
In planted feet
In the touch of skin
On skin

Such is the future in our fingertips