top of page

Ode to Lucille Clifton

By Sam Yau

on the day of your passing,

you lift the veil of transition,

walk through a five-pace fog

a wild river flows above,

shimmering the blood-red

of the moon’s edge

Jesus would not miss it, neither

would Yemoja or Kali

millions flock to the gates of heaven

to thank you for the virtue and dignity

they gleaned from your words while

living their humble lives on earth

your poems— short, unadorned,

punctuated with silence, sparseness,

their essence sculpted on a kitchen table

surrounded by six children, living and dead—

imbue the mundane with the sacred

you did not shy away from life’s horrors,

truth-telling in the plainest ways,

but always with optimism and love:

that gist of your soul that gushes from

every pore of your body that you adore

you are the bridge people cross to

find the real strength in their spirit

you rise again

and rise again

to dance


Les commentaires ont été désactivés.
bottom of page