I am a planet not fit for habitation I am a garden with stones in stead of soil
Did you not hear that I am no docile beast? I am a team of oxen with no yoke
a wild colt not yet broken I am the plow on this plantation,
and the rearing bucking horse I am the beast of burden
turning up soil into neat northwards furrows I am the railroad spike
not the roaring train belching skin Don’t you know that I am a fine lady?
I dab my napkin at black miner’s hands, hoping the coal will stay
I am a crow cawing of cardinal points trading fertile fields for frozen lakes
I am a constellation quenching thirst cotton fields sing of my skeletal arms
I am a postman during the night delivering God’s darkened packages station
to station My hair is my helm and I am armored
my back clad in rising rows of chainmail links I am a conductor of this living orchestra
whose rising voices sing of Greece I am a map labeled with no letters
A bible drawn instead of written Did you not hear the name of Moses?
I am not named in the scripture as Harriet But Adam’s children do remember me