Saturday Mournings
Saturday
Mournings
Those Saturday mornings
I pushed my bed
Away from the wall
Hoping my sister would not hear
Hoping my foster
Momma
Would not hear
Hoping the old wood would
Not squeak or crackle
Too loud
And tell of my desire
Tell of my weakness
Tell of a
Little Girl’s dream
To see her
Mother
Tell of a Black Girl’s longing
for White arms to be
Intertwined with
Black ones
Tell of brown eyes’
Need to see hazel Irish ones
Tell of the truth
Of how I could
Love You Mother
Still Need You Mother
Even after
The Give-away
The living away
The way irony played
In your manic rage
On a Berkeley Street
The day you said you needed
To find her
She, Not me
Offering in my palm my whole
Black heart
But SHE, the daughter you never saw
But needed, no less...
The words still echo in my head
Replay each day
Who?
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poem by Jessica Holter
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