i from Edisto

i from Edisto
the capital of the sticks
we built these foundations upon bricks
laid by men with bare hands and even barer souls

i am the forgotten Bengali child of the black dust
cleaning D-cell batteries that
that leave my lungs accumulated with clouds of coal
yet, i never could quite tell which way the wind blows

i am the son of boll weevil
born in cotton gins
the bastardized child of unforgiven sins
my cousins never kissed
yet, the taste of fresh shrimp and grits is indeed sweet bliss

i am from the boogie down
instead of a crib i slept atop my boombox radio
my face is hidden not by a blanket but by a hoody
i still wear no socks
my soul is live and in stereo
hard knock life was my theme song, son

i come from the bases of the Blue Hills
where we lay in pits of snow reserved for those
who need balance in their lives
but these bunny slopes don't match our hues
so thus i am subdued by these three stripes on your shoes
to which you cling to like a rite of passage

i am from the borough that keeps it thorough
standing strong on my own two
this bodega is my way of fighting for my small slice of the pie 24/7 on through
i found myself weaving in and out consciousness
at the corner of Nostrand and the Parkway
i know the smell of curry goat from a mile away

i am from the sweet grass baskets of the sea islands
i used to give warm hugs and hieroglyphic pounds
but i only give head nods now
you see, my brittle hands ache in arthritic agony
yet, my clenhced fists are forces with which to be reckoned

let the dirt road children rejoice
in a harmonious symphony
let the senior citizen gangs put down their canes
and march in unison like the S1Ws of Public Enemy

let this sharecropper blood in our veins
speak volumes
but it cannot substitute for reverence
we cannot feign our existence
we smile only to acknowledge our parallel paths
and pray to sand dune goads
we offer okra soup as our homage

who are we to be unafraid of the weeping willows that hover above our fantasies
like spiritual remnants of our deferred laziness
our solace comes solely from the salt water that beckoned
our ancestors back to those haunted shores
in search of wisdom
with bare-feet and gullah-lined tongues
we are the children of Edisto
swinging from tree limbs too connect our dots and our genes
huddled on shrimp boats to cast wider nets
fishing for our dreams