E.J. Wade is a four-time National Endowment of the Humanities Teacher Institute winner. An award-winning poet with two Pushcart nominations her poems have been published in the Anthology of Appalachian Writers, Women Speak Volume Eight, and New Ohio Review. As Editor for the 2022 Anthology of Appalachian Writers, her poetry and photography garnered multiple awards. A Doctoral Candidate Wade is pursuing a doctorate of Disability and Equity in Education from National Louis University focusing on the silencing, exclusion, and invisibility of African American Women with disabilities. E. J. also holds a master’s in Appalachian Studies from Shepherd University and a Master’s in Creative Media Practices from The University of The West of Scotland.
Dreams
Yesterday,
I dreamt of beautiful bodies . . .
black bodies
bouncing
brilliantly
beneath
bountiful blooming
begonias
Last Night,
I dreamt of bodies . . .
Besieging
bulging bosoms of
bless un-bottled breast milk
This morning,
I dreamt of bodies . . .
Mine, Yours, and our newborn babe’s
Raising in the Midst
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.
One Drop
Like strands of light
spun and twisted,
her-story
takes refuge in the helixes
of my DNA, the marrow of
my bone, and the embryonic
configuration of my
omnipresence
Invisible to the naked eye
tethered to chromosome
and histone
I sleep between
layers of frayed memories
and ancestral work pants
cloaked in secrecy
Swatches of yellow,
blue, and green
are woven and stitched
together
in a binary landscape
anointing
unfolding
bearing witness
to my delivery.
Climbing Jacob’s ladder,
following the evening star,
the drunkard’s path
spearheads a wild goose chase
in search of the one drop
trussed to antiquity,
in the coils of my hair
A Tear Rolls Down
A little tear rolls down a cheek
and settles in a ridge made from a wrinkle
Silence exists
sinister and ominous – invisible and naked
falling on deaf ears
it is rendered less valid and unworthy
trickling out between clenched teeth
and lips hinged taut
its power is in the speaking
bemused footprints
ground the carbon
fossilizing the spot
where it once trod
staring out ahead beyond the sea
attentive
resolute
seduced by a paradox unresolvable
inclusive
memory records a lost story
gnarled like the twisted
roots of the baobab tree
lush and green
visible
immoveable
voice nods in recognition
a gesture of affection
extracting hatred and fear
whispering at the edge
I pledge allegiance
The Hardest Part
The box comes in the mail.
Eagerly you open it.
I roll my eyes in skepticism
as you unpack the cheap plastic incubator
and one quail’s egg.
The hours pass.
You check and recheck.
I try to prepare you for the disappointment
of its stillbirth.
A tiny beak begins to poke through.
Hour after hour it struggles to break free.
Finally, exhausted, it is born.
You hold it near your glowing face
as I snap a picture of the proud papa.
I can not believe you brought it life.
I am thrilled with your success.
Within hours it dies.
Your heart is broken.
I know at this moment that the hardest part
is not teaching discipline.
It is watching you suffer.
1996 Linda Wallin