Black Pain - An Ancestral Prayer

Black pain seems too difficult for America to consider.

How it travels through our blood lines 

until white folks started calling it 

anxiety. depression. bipolar disorder. 

Black pain sounds like blood rusted chains against shin. 

Sounds like the crack of a whip, 

the cries of a child torn away from their mother. 

Sounds like silent death of black-girl-dignity up on auction blocks.

Black pain sounds like howling bellies and field hands. 

Are you deaf to it, America? Too much cotton in your ears? 

Our pain sounds like church gospels. 

Like black mothers singing hope harmonies. 

Sounds like wading water and escape.

Strong brown feet desperately pounding the earth.

Praise our black feet. Praise our black spirits. 

(I get mine from my mother. It stay weary, but alive at the same time)

Our pain sounds like trumpets and rhythm. 

Like blues and soul and prayer. 

Like hip hop and jazz. 

Like praise.

A song we dance to on Sundays

In white skirts that flow like oceans from our hips. 

Black pain sounds like laughter, 

(but how does that make sense?) 

Means America can't break us; Black pain ain't weakness. 

Praise this strength.

Praise this fire, like  spirituals burning inside our ribs. 

Praise these backbones. Gifts from our ancestors. 

Praise these blood lines. 

Praise these blood lines.

Praise these blood lines,

and the black pain that will always roll through.