Ancestors (16/30)

When the day wrings,

its fingers squeeze every drop. 

You become a sponge

brittle, dried, weightless---

forgetting you were meant to hold water.  

 On days like these I

remember my ancestors. 


You cannot tell me

that a line of wise women 

don't stand at my back. 

 They press in praying--

their ancestral palms to my waist

tangled in my braids. 


When you are wrung dry

take yourself to the water 

and feel the day's fingers loosen their grasp

on days like these.