Friday, February 6, 2009

February 5, 2009

An Open Letter to Emily Raboteau

I heard you this evening
in a mixed media art
exhibit on the ground floor
of my university student center.

You began by speaking of Zion.

Heavy with the first fingers 
of the Pentateuch, you spoke
of Moses and Joshua and how
every slave story is an
Israelite's story.

We started by counting Egypts.

And you said this was not
the promised land, and that
was not the promised land,
and you said that you were 
still looking for that unspoiled 
milk and bee-less honey.

But I think I see it bubbling
up inside your quiet eyes.
I think I see it rolling around
the sharp bones of your ankles.
I think I see it in the colors filed
between the palm and back of 
your right and left hands.
I think I see it in the words
that fall like sand or broken
shells on the unswept floor
of your museum mouth.

I heard you this evening
in a mixed media art
exhibit on the ground floor
of my university student center.

You began by speaking.

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