12. 26. 15

red cloth tales

& miracles abound

I am on the bottom of

the ocean walking

the bones with Wilson

we follow the 1024

a solemn pantheon

grandparents great grand parents

we walk where they walked

how they walked

great greats and back

across the ocean to the

other side me & the master

he smiles often I am all

tears weary rage

& some small part translucent hope

he is food water & patient with

my need to know

the ritual is a circle

ten candles one million blessings

blinding light &

other mountains in the distance

the knowledge you knew you knew

the dream without the end

Aunt Ester is dead

but I talked to her last night

Wilson is a mother fucker

whispering truth that

smells like an old language

lines that draw faces I remember

Ester or Wilson told me

stand on the top of the mountain

to know what you don’t know

so I stayed the path

rocks and all

its steeper just before the precipice


there is no moon

there are no stars

I’m still

standing in this

moment between heart

beats in this

blinding light

the air on top of

the mountain

smells like a new day



About Ayodele Nzinga, MFA, PhD

I create; therefore I am.
This entry was posted in arts scholarship, August Wilson, North American African Perspective, Poetry, Uncategorized and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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