We were in Washington D.C. to March so an assassinated Black man could have a holiday.
And, everywhere we went, there were these very poor Black people living in the shadows
of prosperity and monuments.
Do you remember? Leaving the hotel and finding so many prostitutes around certain corners
we were warned by the door man not to venture there?
This all goes to say, a mother may invite you to her home for dinner but, no matter how fine
the silverware pattern, she must feed her own children regularly, wash them and tend to their
clothes or the diners will only remember their sunken eyes. That stare of absolute despair,
their outstretched palms so very lean.
This all goes to say, a good mother is not what she says only.
She is the concrete nature of what she does again and again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem