III.
It took time for me to see
That it was neither them nor me, but simply that
She
never stood a chance.
For Her trunk in all Her unbridled glory,
was bound in chains,
choked out by debris
Long before Them, or Us,
or Me.
At Her inception, before
She could grow old,
the last sip of Her sap stolen,
drained, and sold.
Yet
Pieces of Her stand here to behold,
pieces of Me,
young joined with old.
Though broken as We are,
We’re a beacon of hope;
We hold secrets and memories,
stories and names,
and one day I, too,
will dance in Our shade.
Be it in vain, I will try
till the wind comes for me;
I’ll try to name Them,
praise Them,
to set Them free.
I vow to nourish, to prune, and ****,
restore what I’m able,
and take only what I need.
To tie Our trunk to Our branches—
and Our branches to Our leaves.
To honor Our roots,
ever trembling,
in the deepest parts of
Me.
This is the third part to an incomplete mess that started flowing out of me, inspired by my struggle to put together my family tree. As a black woman, it’s been an emotional experience, full of chapters lost to history. Once I have the emotional energy, I’ll upload the poem as a whole.
