I’m built upon the bones of (Their bones
were never meant to slave away; hours
on end, feet swelling on-call, arthritis
in their knuckles that act up
on rainy days.) my great-grandfather’s red
skin, my grandmother’s brown, my aunts’, cousin’s,
sisters’ and mother’s.
I’m built from the scrapes. I wasn’t
meant to live — to breathe
or dream — I’m accident. Still
the beating of my skin, the smooth
of my heart tells
me — I’m alive. Oh,
what a joy! Now that I live, that I’ve taken what they
could supply, it’s my time to give. To reach
for what the world was against them on. To do
what their aching & tired bones could not. I am not
just the bones
of my ancestors, I am the unbroken
concrete, the nigger who won’t
shut up. The slave who will
sink the damn ship
before she jumps
overboard alone. Some pray. Some
reckon.