Scenes in the life of a lesser angel

by RAINA J. LEÓN

I.
I borrow wings from other angels, coast
the streets to find feathers loosely attached
to slender silver ties. With care, I close the catch
and fasten cardboard stiffened form so close

I cannot breathe or fly for the air
pushed out into a world in masquerade.
I am African. I am goddess with flare
sounding the trumpets. I call out God.

Meaning changes like sea water in storm.
I part the crowds until, beaten, my wings
fly, fall, litter the streets. I cradle the newborn
twins and realize that I am fallen,

a lesser angel, wingless and depressed.
I am seductress unpetaled, undressed.

Raina J. León, “Scenes in the life of a lesser angel” from CANTICLE OF IDOLS. Copyright © 2008 by Raina J. León.

MoSt will post a poem by a Black poet each day through the month of June.

February 12, 1963

by Jacqueline Woodson

I am born on a Tuesday at University Hospital
Columbus, Ohio,
USA—
a country caught

between Black and White.

I am born not long from the time
or far from the place
where
my great-great-grandparents
worked the deep rich land
unfree
dawn till dusk
unpaid
drank cool water from scooped-out gourds
looked up and followed
the sky’s mirrored constellation
to freedom.

I am born as the South explodes,
too many people too many years
enslaved, then emancipated
but not free, the people
who look like me
keep fighting
and marching
and getting killed
so that today—
February 12, 1963
and every day from this moment on,
brown children like me can grow up
free. Can grow up
learning and voting and walking and riding
wherever we want.

I am born in Ohio but
the stories of South Carolina already run
like rivers
through my veins.

Jacqueline Woodson, “February 12, 1963” from Brown Girl Dreaming. Copyright © 2014 by Jacqueline Woodson.

MoSt will post a poem a day by a Black poet through the month of June.

Harlem

by Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

From The Collected Works of Langston Hughes. Copyright © 2002 by Langston Hughes.

MoSt will post a poem a day by a Black poet through the month of June.

On summer evenings

by Samiya Bashir

When I do
I picture you
filleted and grilled

a dusting of olive
oil peeled ginger
and leeks. Seasons.

I look at you
see skin and char
smoldering scars

as script. Constellations
shimmer and smoke. My love,
bid me singe with you. I’ll sing.

Originally published in Gospel by Samiya Bashir, copyright 2009.

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MoSt will post a poem by a Black poet each day through the month of June.

Who But the Lord?

By Langston Hughes

I looked and I saw
That man they call the Law.
He was coming
Down the street at me!
I had visions in my head
Of being laid out cold and dead,
Or else murdered
By the third degree.

I said, O, Lord, if you can,
Save me from that man!
Don’t let him make a pulp out of me!
But the Lord he was not quick.
The Law raised up his stick
And beat the living hell out
Out of me!

Now, I do not understand
Why God don’t protect a man
From police brutality.
Being poor and black,
I’ve no weapon to strike back
So who but the Lord
Can protect me?

This poem was written in 1947.

Most Poetry will post a poem by a Black poet each day through the month of June.