Each Sunday ...for my Grand


...

i wonder did she dream
while baking cold-water cornbread 
of being a great reporter churning 
all the facts together and creating 
the truth 
did she think     while patching the torn pants 
and mending the socks of her men   of standing 
arms outstretched before a great world 
body offering her solution for peace 
what did she feel wringing the neck
of Sunday's chicken breaking the beans 
of her stifled life 

she sits each sunday black
dress falling below her knees which have drifted 
apart defining a void
in the temple of her life in the churn of her  god
strong and staunch and hopeful
that we never change
places 

-Nikki Giovanni 




Comments

  1. I love this poem. I have lived this poem. what is it called??? I tried to google it but only her literary bio came up...

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