Poetry
"Mama Sang the Blue"
By Latorial Faison
By Latorial Faison
I.
Mama’s bottle tested illusion. Therein was a holy
Water from a great river that healed the sick,
Raised the dead. She sipped small sips with her Black
Lips, hummed hymns nice & slow, in & out of contralto,
Like Mahalia Jackson. Tell the angels that I’m on my way,
Toe tapping, head rocking & all hard working,
Poor & saved. Bittersweet like a one-room school,
She came together like an old Negro textbook--
Missing pages yet heaven sent. The god of white evil
Couldn’t have created a strong, Black woman like this.
Like a daystar, she appeared in indigo skies, orphaned
& unknown. From a dying womb to a tenant room,
She came like a blonde-haired, blue-eyed baby Jesus
In a brown-skinned country; it didn’t make no sense.
The poison she picked—a balm that delivered her from evil,
From lying white tongues to the lynching of Black sons.
Mama grew stronger than Samson on Friday nights
Every time she stole away to grab pieces of her
Humanity back. It was a happy sadness that dealt in
Pain. For when white folk got your tongue, you
Can’t tell nobody but Jesus & when Jesus got you
Singing like Mahalia, you can’t trust nobody but God.
II.
Mama was serious about her religion, the Baptist
Church down the dirt road & choir rehearsals on
Thursday nights. With songbooks, hand-written
Notes & a third grade education, she impressed
Her own self. Standing in the choir on the promises
Of God, all robed & righteous, she was worth more
Than white women. Her voice, like a whippoorwill,
Could whistle a song all through a dark night, all through
The struggle. When she sang from her midnight,
I knew she was light. Mama was a voice of dark brown
Reason—calling out to God, crying out for freedom.
I listened with every hope that had ever come between us.
She sculpted me into me with a melody she hummed
Through all kinds of hell. Mama was a nuance, a renaissance
Inhaling & impaling grief, exhaling peace of mind, a piece
Of mine. She was a professor of arts & letters & God
Quilting me with all the pieces she was. Like every strong
Black wise woman who ever was a warrior, whoever came
Before her, she came bearing gifts, bequeathing songs.
She came; they came. I, too, have come to raise the dead.
Mama’s bottle tested illusion. Therein was a holy
Water from a great river that healed the sick,
Raised the dead. She sipped small sips with her Black
Lips, hummed hymns nice & slow, in & out of contralto,
Like Mahalia Jackson. Tell the angels that I’m on my way,
Toe tapping, head rocking & all hard working,
Poor & saved. Bittersweet like a one-room school,
She came together like an old Negro textbook--
Missing pages yet heaven sent. The god of white evil
Couldn’t have created a strong, Black woman like this.
Like a daystar, she appeared in indigo skies, orphaned
& unknown. From a dying womb to a tenant room,
She came like a blonde-haired, blue-eyed baby Jesus
In a brown-skinned country; it didn’t make no sense.
The poison she picked—a balm that delivered her from evil,
From lying white tongues to the lynching of Black sons.
Mama grew stronger than Samson on Friday nights
Every time she stole away to grab pieces of her
Humanity back. It was a happy sadness that dealt in
Pain. For when white folk got your tongue, you
Can’t tell nobody but Jesus & when Jesus got you
Singing like Mahalia, you can’t trust nobody but God.
II.
Mama was serious about her religion, the Baptist
Church down the dirt road & choir rehearsals on
Thursday nights. With songbooks, hand-written
Notes & a third grade education, she impressed
Her own self. Standing in the choir on the promises
Of God, all robed & righteous, she was worth more
Than white women. Her voice, like a whippoorwill,
Could whistle a song all through a dark night, all through
The struggle. When she sang from her midnight,
I knew she was light. Mama was a voice of dark brown
Reason—calling out to God, crying out for freedom.
I listened with every hope that had ever come between us.
She sculpted me into me with a melody she hummed
Through all kinds of hell. Mama was a nuance, a renaissance
Inhaling & impaling grief, exhaling peace of mind, a piece
Of mine. She was a professor of arts & letters & God
Quilting me with all the pieces she was. Like every strong
Black wise woman who ever was a warrior, whoever came
Before her, she came bearing gifts, bequeathing songs.
She came; they came. I, too, have come to raise the dead.
