Saturday, September 24, 2016



The black child brought to birth at last

And suckled at the breast,

Drinks greedily of that which is denied.

Yet, withered dreams are milked as well,

And drop by sour drop,

They turn away what might have been.

Then, belly full, and bubbled lip

The child is drawn to sleep,

That she may walk the dreaming path.

The time has come, and darkness turns

A new and shining face,

Upon the black child newly found.

For life will have us suckle, however

We may find, the offered breast,

The ancient milk … our destiny defined.


  1. This is a marvelous piece of poetry, so much captured here, as symbol or as metaphor... If just the milk will last it might work...

  2. Really excellent...on so many levels. Thanks.