A Mother Weeps

It is the year 1896, And a black child born In rural Louisiana Sometime in 1865 Has just had her Thirty-first birthday. She should be happy-- Her newborn babe Is healthy and although They’re scraping Tin cans empty, Her family survives. But how can a mother Sleep at night Knowing that The child she nurses And the others she’s raised Have to carry misfortune By wearing the skin That others hate? Because although her parents Once nursed her With the relief That months prior To her birth, The Constitution Of the country That once Betrayed their own Brotherhood, Would no longer Enslave their newborn child, She now lives With a heavy heart. She can’t understand The reasoning Behind this constitutional “Separate but Equal” insult. How can they expect Equality when Her children will grow up Thinking they are “less-than?” How can this be called progress When enslavement Has just been relocated From the exterior To the interior? How can she feel free When her children Feel trapped In their very own skin? Her newborn child Will be fifty-eight When the United States Will finally say, “Hey, it’s okay! We’ve decided you Can go to other schools.” But how can this mother Stay hopeful if Full equality will not Start to impact the lives Of young African Americans Until she has passed Her eighty-ninth birthday? How can this-- How can this be Freedom? How can Lady Liberty Stand tall for Immigrants? How can The president Claim to represent A free nation If her children And the children Of many other countless Families Will sleep With dreams of being Light-skinned? How can she be free? She doesn’t know. Will never know-- What her grandchildren Will someday be, The battles they will win, And the lives they will change. She doesn’t know… And this is why She weeps.