On Lucille’s Rite of Passage

On Lucille’s Rite of Passage

after Lucille Clifton, Motherpoet

(June 27, 1936 – February 13, 2010)

 

My hands are weak.

Fingers heavy as ready breasts

for a full-bellied son.

I have no wisdom,

none greater than has dewed

from the dawn of your round

bones, mother cheeks

like the promise of pretty brown moles,

your low gray hair makes me proud

to know my tongue’s texture,

knowing for a being, both

black and female, all citrus is not sour,

most fruits will not be sweet.

We trust our ready buds to name

the difference, identify the bruises.

My eyes follow the dark paths

on the pale side, respect the wait

in my palms for the day I can say

your name the right way.

– Mel

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