She wore her heart on her shoulder. Playing her part as a mother. Betrothed to herself in a world unsettled. Married to a ghost. Creating magic from each step she took. She worked to her peak of new life. And loved a lamb in her womb. Ghetto queen who wore her crown right. Complicating her life, she took pain and never stopped to cry. Within her loneliness, there she prayed my birth. The blessing from her blessing gave me all of her. Taking me to church to receive holy worship, but I found him in her eyes. Those Sunday meals full of fried chicken and deep fried collard greens. She was my motherland. She was my home.
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