Black is what the prisons are,
The stagnant vortex of the hours
Swept into totality,
Creeping in the perjured heart,
Bitter in the vulgar rhyme,
Bitter on the walls;
Black is where the devils dance
With time within
The creviced wall.
My grandmothers were strong.
They followed plows and bent to toil.
They moved through fields sowing seed.
The touched earth and grain grew.
They were full of sturdiness and singing.
My grandmothers were strong.
My... LINEAGE by Margaret Walker.
