Ode to the negro girl in my soul , I find it odd to say, you think,  too mightily of what we have become, if you thought lunch counters, and sit ins were a problem, imagine walking down universal generalizations, in grocery stores where A, still can’t point to B, and not feel  swallowed between, cookie cutter hopes, and aisles where residential change is daunting,

there are no Langston Hughes, of my day, who dare to write of bodies stolen from the Motherland, bodies that sing of Freedom, bodies buried before daylight, bodies that can’t hold -free, and when they do , it must be in the key of silent, just another altered variable of Y ,  dark girls, Y-copper sands, Y- dark- black holes and gravity, 

everyday I chant, everyday I speak in verse, make my Jesus a negro girl, like prayers as dreams of steel in my soul, make my song , smothered ancestors of conception, yearning seas of glass, break heavy with sorrow, break full bowls like red-tents, womb-embraced, no weightier thing, birthing, night, consolations of my own darkness, stars of darkened-golden-holy, full-to- overflowing, Ode to the Negro girl in my soul. your poet Krissy Mosley all rights reserved