Phenomenal Woman (2 page)

I shall not be moved.

Her universe, often

summarized into one black body

falling finally from the tree to her feet,

made her cry each time in a new voice.

All my past hastens to defeat,

and strangers claim the glory of my love,

Iniquity has bound me to his bed,

yet, I must not be moved.

She heard the names,

swirling ribbons in the wind of history:

nigger, nigger bitch, heifer,

mammy, property, creature, ape, baboon,

whore, hot tail, thing, it.

She said, But my description cannot

fit your tongue, for

I have a certain way of being in this world,

and I shall not, I shall not be moved.

No angel stretched protecting wings

above the heads of her children,

fluttering and urging the winds of reason

into the confusion of their lives.

They sprouted like young weeds,

but she could not shield their growth

from the grinding blades of ignorance, nor

shape them into symbolic topiaries.

She sent them away,

underground, overland, in coaches and

shoeless.

When you learn, teach.

When you get, give.

As for me,

I shall not be moved.

She stood in midocean, seeking dry land.

She searched God’s face.

Assured,

she placed her fire of service

on the altar, and though

clothed in the finery of faith,

when she appeared at the temple door,

no sign welcomed

Black Grandmother. Enter here.

Into the crashing sound,

into wickedness, she cried,

No one, no, nor no one million

ones dare deny me God. I go forth

alone, and stand as ten thousand.

The Divine upon my right

impels me to pull forever

at the latch on Freedom’s gate.

The Holy Spirit upon my left leads my

feet without ceasing into the camp of the

righteous and into the tents of the free.

These momma faces, lemon-yellow, plum-
purple,

honey-brown, have grimaced and twisted

down a pyramid of years.

She is Sheba and Sojourner,

She stands

before the abortion clinic,

confounded by the lack of choices.

In the Welfare line,

reduced to the pity of handouts.

Ordained in the pulpit, shielded

by the mysteries.

In the operating room,

husbanding life.

In the choir loft,

holding God in her throat.

On lonely street corners,

hawking her body.

In the classroom, loving the

children to understanding.

Centered on the world’s stage,

she sings to her loves and beloveds,

to her foes and detractors:

However I am perceived and deceived,

however my ignorance and conceits,

lay aside your fears that I will be undone,

for I shall not be moved.

I dedicate this book
to the memory of my mother
,
Vivian Baxter
,
the most phenomenal
.