I read James Baldwin today
and realized I was carrying his bones
in the crooks of my arms,
and that if my books shall die,
then I have labored in vain.
I have swam through centuries
and ran years in someone else’s shoes,
I have climbed mountains
and crawled under valleys
only to bleed death.
I have wasted my time
carving obsession into paper
with invisible ink,
Words fallen like stars
on deaf ears.
If my books shall die,
then let me not be born.
Take me back to the safety
of my mother’s womb,
the privacy
of not yet existing
if my works have been in vain.
If my books shall die,
then I do not exist.
Not on the tops of your shelves,
or faced down on kitchen counters,
or underneath your children’s beds.
Honor me
in the palms of your hands
and not standing next to Grandmother’s old picture in the living room—
Grandmother is dead
and I do not wish to die.
Give me my flowers today
and accept the life I offer you
in the form of metaphors
On silver platters,
For I am feeding you
with silver spoons
and all you’ve got to do is eat…
I offer you
the best of me.
And when I am dead,
no longer among the living
crack open a book written by me
and feel my breath on your skin.
Hear my voice resurrect
from inside an ancient pen,
Watch my tongue dance,
See my lips move
and witness passion soar from beyond the grave.
If my books shall die
then my words did not really contain life,
But if my books shall live…
What are you waiting for?
Go to your bookshelf,
Resurrect me
and carry
my bones.
The PBS Blog 
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