Mama taught me something sacred.
If God’s words are heavy enough to speak
a universe into existence, words are weighted.
I’m made in His image, therefore, I can, unbated,
breathe my own constellations, can sing my own seas.
Mama taught me something sacred.
Like Saturn and it’s rusty rings, words encase us. My uncle violated
my young galaxy, chained me down with its your fault,
told me, don’t tell anyone. . . I remembered words are weighted,
so, I learn to opt for mutism, awaken
to just how many suns words weigh. If a word is weight,
what is silence? Mama taught me something sacred.
Silence didn’t save Kitty Genovese. Maya Angelou awaited
5 years before speaking again because she thought
her words killed a man. Our words are weighted.
Would repeating them make it gain meaning or waste it?
Would repeating them make it gain meaning or waste it?
Mama taught me something sacred.
She taught me that our words are weighted.