my ama,
sits with daisies knitted into her hair,
she sits with her legs crossed over brick wall
water splashing on her feet from the river that flows beneath her,
she sits and has prayer bead lays clasped in hand,
muttering prayers that paint off tongue,
she must have acres of olive trees growing in heaven,
for her goodness overrides any sin that was comitted,
did she ever know that her granddaughter would love her,
that she would struggle to breathe,
at the thought of losing her,
that now,
these cobbled roads seem so much harder to walk across now,
that despite the knives thrown she dodges them better,
she holds up her cage of ribs like a lion,
wears them like a robe to keep her mighty,
a tiara to uphold the legacy,
femininty running through her legs,
with feet beating on the ground to the rhythm of drums,
the rhythm of bleeding ancestors,
who not only gave her fight but gave her courage,
she is becoming your warrior now.
during death ama,
you held my hand,
within that handshake,
you gave me a gift that radiated up through my backbone,
held me down through my womb,
and lifted me up,
an exchange of energies,
I guess now I run with you in my feet,
with you in my eyes,
I fight and I fight,
and I fight.