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.