The Black Madonna Speaks of War

(for Franz Fanon)

It was spring, I believe, when lyingon my divan of divided realitiesshe came in thru the back alley windowand anointed my head with buttercupsMother, she came as rare spirits dodown swing band alleys onthe fish guts of homemade banjossinging to a spineless moonthe timid moan of branchesrefusing to embrace the windows of a spook housebut Mother was not afraid of ghoststhough she knew they existedshe was not afraid of the high pitch whistle of deathor the bald threat of povertythat clung tight as the threads of her trampled skirtpieces of batik floating on the beachesof vague ruminationsa slave ship strapped papoose on her back.

Know why this song screams?it is in a chamber hollowed with metal lungsand the misery of early morning massacresa reversal of history at the very rim of lifenew to oldinstead of old to newfeast on a bitter pot of tears, palatable because there is nothing elsenothing comes to visit the granariesthough their doors are wide open skiesof wishes to be full as the high noon sun.

But she was not afraid of hunger eitherfor love or for breadpressing the patterns of a muted villageto her breasts as if to meld it with her strengthpure as the green halo of a heart painting butterflies.pure as the prana of a predawn rushing tidethe sakin fall of clouds purer than rain.

       I eat the calm       I eat the manna flakessweeter than the flushed cheeks of lollipopsI lie on the pallet of promiseas if the future would never comeknocking on these wallsI bask on the futons of philosopher stonefull to the brim with metaphors spilling over a cliff.she caught the word and vision on dove wings of breathas a child falling from a ridge of despairis saved in an instantin the mammoth elation worn on a green lip smile.

I eat the rage of seasonal stormsto break the crust of the black earthwith mandarin trees,the scent of its yellow blossoms loomingover the stench of fratricidal blood bathswhile the moon, knowing the cryptographscarved on the sidewalks only gloatsashamed of its crippled childrenit hides its hurt under a mask ofquiet volcanoes punctured with laughter.

Know why this breath is holy?holy waterit cools the boiling ashes of a fever for lifea fever for sharing what its fruits profferthese are for youwoman of timeless timesa spatial impulse that fills itself with ripe figscalm that comes in a cloudbursta rain of irrational seizuresa rain of gifts in all their rawness.

She has given me my Ka/herselfthe double archetype of my sacred valleymy hand rests steady on the gunmy aim sure as a widow's sadnesswears the midnight skyat the gold tooth eye of the enemy.

Fanon knew, who composedthe national anthem of the toilers       "the matriarchal essence       of patriarchal society"that the women       will make the revolution.

Did she speak to you too, Fanon?did she come to you thru the crime worn windowsyou calculated like political adding machinesthe millions of combat breaths you buriedbefore the vultures had their waywith the meat of their soulsthen resurrected them       son of the Madonnayou always were the sky's open blue fieldanointed with buttercupsthe same ones she placed in a lei around my head early in the spring of international womanhoodearly in the spring of her combat visionholding steady the gun       she aims . . . shootsthe gold tooth eye into splinters of smoke       and kisses the ground again.