Her Poems Were Her Children

For Olga Cabral-who said she never had any children

Her poems were her children,

delivered through the palms of her hands,

bodies wound through the womb of a pen,

guided to the tip of a pencil.

She let them leave her,

let them dull her sharpened edges

Her children have skin as black as ink

smooth as graphite;

it is the darkness that dares

to confront the light.

Just as Noah’s wife Namaah,

who wore an apron

sewn with so many pockets

to collect the seeds

of all the plants and trees,

This daughter

gathered the darkness

in the pocket

of her seamless heart

Until it was time

to deliver.

Exposed to the light,

her children come alive

and continue to grow

in our eyes,

And yet they live

entirely on their own.
EDM