There was, oh that there was (or wasn't),
once upon a time in Africa,
as in every tale, a death.
In every myth made, there is a loss
that begs our growth
in the trials of life and the living.
These tales are not new,
we’ve been in the telling
our whole lives.
Listen to the ankh and Anansi:
our symbols, our stories,
every one with its teller
who weaves and draws together
thin and glistening webs
across all the forms we take.
Our hero losing a parent, the one
who loves, who gathers those around
to tell story, story,
loses their shield, their village,
their life, to be the moral
of a story they didn't ask for.
Perhaps, one day, our grief
won’t have to lay so heavy
on our hearts, alone.
Perhaps, then, rivers won’t drown
us, nor will the land
be irrevocably parched.
We’ll find ways to hold each other’s
mourning, to tell each other’s stories
in a voice not made to be broken,
to be heard. To not ask what
the other has lost but what we can give
with our listening ear.
Our dreams, steeped with solace
of ancient cross, crescent,
stars and sky, or humble spider
spinning webs of hope between fingertips,
hangs the old and future tales
constant, glorious, and ours.
Artwork courtesy of our featured artist, Ernest Williamson III, PhD
