The women in my family are red . . . tan . . .
coco . . . blue . . . beige . . . black . . .
brown . . . latte . . . mocha . . . olive . . .
copper . . . bronze . . . yella. . . high yella . . .
caramel . . . butternut . . . chocolate . . . bittersweet
and white

Full-figured and outrageously bodacious
colored women who

quilt
bake bread
braid hair

and give birth
to honey-lipped off spring
held hostage by prehistoric rhythms
long ago passed.

Rising up in the midst
of these oak-imaged women
I be mirrored in their gaze

Reflected in their image
recreated in their likeness
regenerated in their spirit
renewed and revitalized

While . . .

washing, cleaning, sewing, teaching
marching, crying, mourning, weeping

they hum ancient spirituals
nesting deep
in the belly
of their womanhood.