worship is for the starving
neglected
chronically hungry bodies
nobody throws a crumb
it is a reaching down
into a near-dry well
to find a little bit of water
for too dry throats
pulling oil
from a used up well
that’s been pumped
too many times
til’ ain’t nothin left
but dust
and invisible fuel
for people who lay by the side of the road
stalled and still
like roasted bodies
for meat-eating fowl
and uninterested passerby eyes
crusted over with shine
illuminated only in the dying
starved and over-red
like nothin nobody wants
worship is a return
to our mother’s instinct
to call her children blessed
beautiful
and black
so when i hear the call
and chime out truly
don’t cut me off
to say all
i mean black
very black
all black
bruised black
dead black
scared black
shot black
poor black
beaten black
gay black
girl black
boy black
old black
baby black
and all kinds of black
too kind
