Face lost in mystery
Only a fragment left to us
Your beautiful black hands.
Hands that received gold ring
From Shakespeare-loving Fabian George
Hands that rocked dusky baby girl Olivia
Hands that caressed ivory and ebony keys
Hands that guided pupils in arpeggios
Hands that patted smooth black hair of granddaughter Emily
And grieved her deafness
Hands that smoothed brows, darned socks, peeled apples
Hands crumbled to dust long since,
Reaching out from broken photograph.
Shaper of my sinews
Builder of my bones,
Fire of your sprit
Hidden in my cells
Kindled on what continent?
Do drums of Africa pulse beneath your skin?
Do rainforest dances quiver in your fingers?
Or did your great-great-grandmother pluck the vinar?
Dark lady of my dreams
Radiant black mother
Half-glimpsed through smoky time
Headless goddess of the lightening bolt
Holder of the sword of wisdom
Take my small white hand in yours
Lead me from these fragments
To your mystery.