Her voice was like shea butter, from

African trees where healing grows 

Her skin was the bark, pushing

through clay and stony soil and racism

Her hair was the branches, carrying

the fruit of Black resistance and hope

Her words were the green leaves, growing

against the drought of the Sahara, or

the America, or the (mis)education

which seeks to quench her message, the 

water upon the seed of MLK’s dream:

That we would learn to live together and love one another.


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