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Black Prayers

I am a woman. A black woman. A black woman believer. 
I cry out to God.
and wonder about all the other women
who cry out to God 
but wonder if he hears our prayers or catches our tears
because in the U.S. black tears seem to not matter
and in other countries, they cry out to God in other languages
and in head scarves
holding their dying children in their arms
while in the U.S. we are told to give more or
the private jet is needed in order
for us to have our turn in 
God's line
but my theology tells me
that He does not have a line
and He does hear
and He does see
and Vengence belongs to him
So we smile and keep praying and teaching and living and walking
and know that one day
It will be all right.
Even if we keep praying
and it seems the
silence
is deafening
and the divine
appears far away
on the other side of the world
tending to the prayers
of the ones 
shut out of country
because their skin
is a little too black
even if
the ones
shutting them out
have the same black skin
so the prayers of the women
the black women
keep going
and going
hoping that the one
who sets the moon at night
and causes the sun to rise
will answer her prayers
before
another
black
child
dies

Comments

Unknown said…
This is absolutely gorgeous, Taye. Wonderful imagery.

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The Burden

This isn't mine anymore

What?

This.

She stretched out her hands
the parcel neatly wrapped
brown paper
with a
red bow

What is this?

Take it, it is your's.

But

No, it is not mine to carry
Anymore

What do you mean?

I mean that I am giving it back
it was never mine
anyway

I don't understand

You never did.

I don't want it.

Take it.

No.

So she
dropped
it
right
where
she stood.

And turned
and walked away.

The package was never her's to hold.
So she let it go.


Tayé Foster Bradshaw is the poet's nom de plumme. She resides in a suburb of St. Louis surrounded by her family, her books, her pens, and her lattes.

This poem is inspired by the lives and burdens of many women, particularly women of color, who are forced to carry the cares, thoughts, and expectations of others without regard to their own wants, needs, and health. This poem is a release.




Black Mama Tears

It rained this afternoon

Loud claps of thunder

Almost couldn't see the rain

For my tears falling down

Black Mama Tears

too many

dying

in their sleep

on a run

at a store

too many

stopped

just walking

just working

just breathing

It rained today

And I couldn't see

for all the weeping

of

Black

Mamas.

Bridges by Tayé Foster Bradshaw

Walking
across time
Bringing me to you
or
you to me
over a way through-
tears and fears
to bring us to
the other side of possibility
probability
reality
reality
crossing
structures
through
over
under
hold on
don't look down
look down
walk on over
dance on over
wheels on over
over over over
water and roads and
all the modes that
bring
me
to
you
or





you
to
me
collectively
connected
collaborating
across
the great
wide
way


©2016. Tayé Foster Bradshaw Group, Antona Smith. All Rights Reserved.

Bridges used to scare me as a little girl. In the town where I grew up, in order to get from my neighborhood over to the swimming pool or summer activities, we walked. I was always fine until we reached the crest of the hill and that looming structure that connect roads-to-roads, over cars zooming beneath, promising me opportunity on the other side, if I just trusted the weight of my tiny skinny nine-year-old self against the wind blowing or the sun streaming over this manmade steal structure.  My l…