December 6, 1992

You came out of earth’s insides, prayed to the earth.
Yesterday, you returned to the earth, I pray to you, tonight— 

you, Audre Lorde, mother of poets, black, white, yellow— 

to you, deep in our insides now, to you, who said
there 
are no honest poems about dead women.

I still want to sleep in your bed, to snuggle against
your 
smooth skin, bathed in moonbeams of peace,
warmed by sun rays of eros— you have mothered
me before— so I, reluctant in the grey morning light,
must again 
become a woman.

I want you to reveal to my daughters, as you did to others,
mysteries in stones— you, draped in
beauty, have left me instructions.
You, who have been a cape of truth to me, insist,
now I must wear your garment fastened with my trust.

I still want you to show me the strength of terror—
how 
you loved the empty space where your breast
had once 
been, how your jewelry would fit there—
just so. You have 
left me in that void, forever
pregnant with poems, and alone.

I still want to tell you so much, to see what you would say.
Maya Angelou is composing a poem for the inauguration,

U.S. troops are going to Somalia.
I have news for you, 
Mother.
There is no news, only how I feel tonight— without you.

Alone without your heat and milk, Mother, my
own company reeks. My throat teems with words—
messy, confused, upset. I am afraid. These words
are what you want from me. You have taught me.
My silence will never protect me.