I Don'T Want No Trouble

You were born in December And you wear your trouble like a rough petrifying plum and carry the sadness of 1000 unsung voices That's about as much as I know about you Where are the poems about the sorrows of ordinary people? You are 23 And gazing upon skyscrapers You breathed in the air of a new America And searched for your mother's eyes across the canvas of solemn Church ladies To deal with your depression, you bought a new air fryer, a CD player and unused glassware that still lingers in the depth of our kitchen cabinets You won't let us touch it You are 25 And endure the searing of knuckles into skin Like pillars of stone A tightening grip around your neck, hot breath from lips of silk and honey You are 31 And your hands can heal broken bones Ready to intrude upon unsuspecting colds, unsuspecting falls and unsuspecting men Elegant in their form and function, they create beauty out of nothing and hold the bronze black skin of my face with calloused fingertips and so much love summer blooms from my cheeks Black mother's hands are unyielding You are 37 You bathe the boys and groan at the sound of me You are 38 and sorrow follows you into every room like a dark silhouette You are 45 and have cut yourself in half Your body ages and your anger burns into a seam Your CD player has broken It is easy to become a praying woman “Do you still love me?” I ask searching, for an answer, Trying not to beg