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.