Mr. Africa Poetry Lounge!
You cannot see the Mothership in space,
It and She being made of the same thing.
All our mothers hover there in the ceaseless
blue-black, watching it ripple and dim
to the prized pale blue in which we spin-
we who are Black, and you, too. Our mothers
know each other there, fully and finally.
They see what some here see and call anomaly:
the way the sight of me might set off
a shiver in another mother's son: a deadly
silent digging in: a stolid refusal to budge:
the viral urge to stake out what on solid ground
is Authority, and sometimes also Territory.
Our mothers, knowing better, call it Folly.
Written by Tracy K. Smith
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