Her Language

Her Language
(c) Krys-Darcelle Dumas 24/ 08/09

She gave me a whole new language
and so I loved her.
A language rich with accents
of scattered ancestors
and singing with the voices of women
too long silenced.
She taught me no words
but breathed each syllable
into me
always with a piece of herself
one at a time
allowing them to mold to
the moment
and become.

Her fingers ran the length
of my bare arm
re-awakening the nerves
run dead
by fretful dreams
of broken stones
and trees
and wills
and backs
forcing me to remember.
They ran over the back
of my hand
tracing the map
of my grandmother’s land
and into the streams of my fingers
she squeezed
and I inhaled

SHHHHHH

We had gone back
back to a time
we took pains to acknowledge
because it gave us strength
taught our feet to fall
sure of the ground;
to a time when we could not love
outside the small dark rooms
awaiting the new day
that would come sure
as the white man
when madam was away.

Her breath caressed each
hair on my neck individually
they stood and waved to her wind
my own plantation,
her hand squeezed again
my lips moved
and


OOOOOH

another sound.
That was two.
I was counting now
as we, in this strange way
grew together.
With that one I remembered
the magic of our hands
when even with no money
the banana lady
would insist
“Take two for the children.”
just so Iya’s hands would
touch her tray
and later when the day
was dimming
blackened by her work
smiling she would come
empty tray in hand
“I did tell you so.”
With that ohhh
I understood the power
of a mother’s hands.

With her hand she
turned my head slightly
as though to urge
the quick glimpse of the
night sky’s lightening
across the face
of a pregnant moon
her lips touched mine
briefly
her tongue darting through
the part to pass
lightly over mine
wiping the last of her
language
unto it
over and over to make sure
I got it. I did
for out it came slowly
as she withdrew

AHHHHHHH

That last syllable the
birth of our new language
the ever lasting symbol
that would tie us and
all before us together
the one that tied me
to her
to my mother
to my grandmother’s mother
and her powerful hands
and I knew
that though I had no children
I would have her
and love
and this story of our
language
to tell you.