Harriet

This past Thanksgiving, I took a trip.  I went to Harriet Tubman's sacred-powered piece of ground, where she watches over the making of great works of humans cut from the cloth that she was formed from and that colored her world with God Fight--the drama that propels people into great symbols of tenacity and human power--a type of sainthood role.

I went to get strong.  I returned to an ugly fight.    Against weaves and dark head-spaces colored by anti-me verses: b***h, ho, n***a, nappy, big nose, I am ugly, ugly, ugly....  So I retreat again.  And move.  In a blue bubble.  Inside my lonely self.  Looking for living Harriets.  Cuz I know i got to stay alive.  If the world had me read right, like Harriet Tubman, as the rest of the cheerleaders hovering around me as I cry at her gravesite do, i'd be some kind of force--matching souls up with God and all that.  Straddling the fence between life and death--her words breathed into me at her gravesite--the only thing keeping me alive, I fight on...