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
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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