At Dawn in My Stables
By Afaa M. Weaver

In the yellow slivers in the wall,

the day comes in Osun's whispers,

tiny velvet of the birds in the leaves

under my feet. I taste a bitter kola nut,

take the drape of Oya's purple robe

on my shoulder. Time is the keeping,

wash of the sun in God's tears –

     ashe!

In the accounts, thunderstones

and cowries, rippling wash of my children

in prayer circles, I name some apostle

to be born in eternity, some hope.

Dances are the turn and circle, jump

up to drill down into the earth and spin,

ring circle, stomp, drum —

     mortar and pestle.

My sons – my ancestors

my word my minister

  sermon.

The horses call to me.

I touch their eyes

with my song, my morning,

my wish.      My slippers

hold the old bones of who I have come to be,

eternal mold for judges and warriors,

for the word, river rushing over rocks,

the light in the gold.

Copyright © Afaa Michael Weaver. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author

Copyright © 1997-2007 by Cave Canem Foundation, Inc.

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