Of talk buried deep in dreams
The words more ours came back to me
Savage lines against my memory
Black hands and feet and faces
The act of nigger past
My pen; responding to the fury in my mind
Like a blade of grass bending to the wind
My language was theirs
Their pain was mine
I spoke as if it was a second tongue
My rage has captured my poems utterly
As I write the pencil inflict deep sore
Wounded I edit
Gnawing away at these foreign
Vocabularies to make the manic real
and let the spirit live-
Urdeen Sylvester OMUSUN
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