Auntie Assata

Auntie Assata,

Ain’t no need in keeping it to yourself. I won’t forget. We know that revolution will never be found in the history books. We know revolution is a thorn studded fruit tree fenced in barbed wire painted to look like roses. Sometimes like me dressed for Easter service, smelling like the loa of love.

Revolution ain’t me grinning, it’s my laughter on the mourner’s bench. Revolution is communion wine on my breath during Sunday school. Revolution is being refused a cracker and any body, particularly the divine forgiveness of Christ.

Revolution ain’t the creek of the pew; it’s the clap of a heavy door and an usher dragging me by the ear. Revolution is an old deacon telling me how much you remind him of Marie Laveau on St. John’s Eve. And I answer “damn skippy” and promise to catch him down the street.

High fives and hand jives,
Dee Dee


“soon, i’ll molt this blackness, let / it cipher into the waves.”