And she kept all these things in her heart
When he arrived he was six weeks old. His hair still peaked. Like a warrior he would curl and release one small hand trying to make a fist. He brought us sugar coated wheat puffs in a plastic bag. He would swing his legs out over the edge of his car seat and espouse wisdoms such as: when the sun goes away, the moon and the winds come and it gets cold and Jalea hit my face, so I punched her.
He was scared of snow and the high pitched ring to the portable phone. But he was brave. He drew a tattoo on his arm and said this was his name. He painted us airplanes in thick giraffe strokes and when Auntie’s foot hurt and she couldn’t carry him anymore. He bent down to kiss it.
I am writing this because today someone told me Africans brought the word love to Europe. The Vanguards, the Vandals, the Visigoths or something like that. The Moors in all their gallantness. Somebody had to bring the word. It traveled and was unrolled before kings like lapis.
He ran like an old man. He came in a coat that flashed red underneath when he wore it. He rang the doorbell all by himself when he brought flowers to our door step. He brought us love in a heavy sack under his left arm and boiled like rice to feed to us.
And when I wouldn’t play with him because I was writing this poem, he sat underneath the rolling chair to be as close to me as he could be. And when I rubbed his hair he asked me what I did that for and I said because I love you and he liked it.
Shayla Lawson 2005
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