Storytelling roots

my mother
my mother was my very first storyteller
singing me calypsos in the stormy weather
wombed warmed me with words of wisdom
weaving, believing that i could handle the width of my hips
and the purse in my lips
she would repeat
look in the mirror
three times a day
and
say
‘i love you’
i love me
i love all that i am and will be
i love the way melanin molecules collide on my insides
giving me the hue of afrikan dew
i love me
i love the thickness in my thighs and my drawn out sighs
when i meditate with my maker
i love my trueself and will never foresake her
and these words i must remember when i meet
other coloured girls
brown, black, tapioca, red and yellow girls
who haven’t considered suicide, but...
never seen a rainbow before
or
heard the innerworkings of audre lorde
with the reminder that
poetry is not a luxury
existing instead of living
so i tell them stories
not those back in the day glories
all those we were queens stuff
but
start where they are
but
first
i
start with
‘i love you’
i love you not just because you are you, but
because you are me
i love all that you are and will be
i love the way our cultures collide on the east side
our bodies a shade of coppery hue
now let us weave together new stories
words of our womb wellness
those that will take us through