i am accused of tending to the past

by lucille clifton

i am accused of tending to the past
as if i made it,
as if i sculpted it
with my own hands. i did not.
this past was waiting for me
when i came,
a monstrous unnamed baby,
and i with my mother's itch
took it to breast
and named it
History.
she is more human now,
learning languages everyday,
remembering faces, names and dates.
when she is strong enough to travel
on her own, beware, she will.

not

you

are not chosen

any stone

can sing

we come to languages

not lives

your tongue is useful

not unique

-lucille clifton, from mercy

sorrows

by lucille clifton

who would believe them winged
who would believe they could be

beautiful    who would believe
they could fall so in love with mortals

that they would attach themselves
as scars attach and ride the skin

sometimes we hear them in our dreams
rattling their skulls    clicking

their bony fingers
they have heard me beseeching

as i whispered into my own
cupped hands    enough    not me again

but who can distinguish
one human voice

amid such choruses
of desire

three poems by lucille clifton

untitled

this belief

in the magic of whiteness,

that it is the smooth

pebble in your hand,

that it is the godmother's

best gift,

that it explains,

allows,

assures,

entitles,

that it can sprout singular blossoms

like jack's bean

and singular verandas from which

to watch them rise,

it is a spell

winding round on itself,

grimms' awful fable,

and it turns into capetown and johannesburg

as surely as the beanstalk leads

to the giant's actual country

where jack lies broken at the

meadow's edge

and the land is in ruins,

no magic, no anything.

incantation

overheard in the hospital

pluck the hairs

from the head

of a virgin.

sweep them into the hall.

take a needle

thin as a lash,

puncture the doorway

to her blood.

here is the magic word:

cancer.

cancer.

repeat it, she will

become her own ghost.

repeat it, she will

follow you, she will

do whatever you say.

from shapeshifter poems

4.

the poem at the end of the world

is the poem the little girl breathes

into her pillow     the one

she cannot tell     the one

there is no one to hear      this poem

is a political poem     is a war poem     is a

universal poem but is not about

these things      this poem

is about one human heart     this poem

is the poem at the end of the world