Hitting Bottom
R.I.P. Robert Poston (1891–1924) and Roberta Poston (1924): husband and daughter of Augusta Savage
Our love still young, our marriage new,
Robert and I felt blackness as
a second vow, a spiritual seal
between two souls who spent long years
before we met wondering if
we would ever find each other.
Now we were one and would soon bring
a life into being. A new
beautiful life, a black life,
we would love and bring into the
Fells family. Irene’s sibling,
a new Negro beginning.
Robert left on assignment
to write about Liberia,
a foothold in the motherland.
He died at sea. Pneumonia.
The last letter he wrote to me
said Africa doesn’t want us.
Garvey was in prison for fraud
(faked charges). I was carrying
the child I wanted to share with Robert.
Roberta came early. Grief was
our midwife. God must hate Negroes.
Why does God make our luck so bad?
She lived ten days. Is this the worst?
Is worse coming? What is the point
of making art? Flowers on graves?
Dancing in masks to placate death?
I don’t want it. I don’t want art.
Take the gift back. With everything else.
Source: Poetry (December 2019)