
Am I Black?
I put my hand to the drum,
straddled the woodburned neck,
pounded into the skin whose spine
ran down the center. I wrote my own
message under the rim,
cut and wetted the drumhead,
tightened and tuned the drum.
I wore cowries around my neck
stared into their mouths
and palmed them, ran my fingers
down their teeth.
I tied them on with bells
and danced the Damballa
in my living room. I danced
to CD drummers and rain forest people’s
singing. I danced stories
about moving forward even when the wind
pushes you back. Was it a parable
from my ancestors?
I do not know. I do not
know them.
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