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