Home » Poems » Carol Bowen-Davis » Catacombs

Catacombs

I have a place that I call home	
deep down within the catacombs
where Malcolm sits in a corner singing
                                              “Give peace a chance”
and Martin stands with the  crowd raising hell
while I dance a jiggle  with Fiddler                                                                             while Ole Missus teaches Kizzie how to read 
passages from the Bible.
And then Preacher gives communion to Nelson
and me.

There, the sun glows a brilliant blue.
The midnight moon winks at Harriett
as she peeps into my world before
she retreats to her wooden box for the night.

She will not stay long in my catacombs.

But, that’s okay.
For I still get to spend time with her because
I do not fear the pattyrollers.
So, I walk down the dirt roads
without passes
and explore the hills and the grasses
of the worlds outside the boundaries of my home;
my catacombs.

Then—
I go to the hole where
Harriett lies in a box there
waiting for me to bring back
the songs that I’ve learned and then sing
to her.  And she sings back to me,

			“No more weepin, weepin,
			soon there will be no more weepin...”

We both laugh and giggle aloud, then I 
return to my home, my catacombs,
where the sun is still shining an indigo blue.
But, Fiddler's grown tired of his jiggle dance,
and I’ve learned to ignore Malcolm’s chants
and Martin’s speeches of perpetual doom.

black african americanrhyme

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