by Anke Hodenpijl
The desert sky paints itself indigo, as inklings of stars, one by one, freckle the firmament. When dark can be no darker, distant suns begin to glow. A sun baked heat lifts from the earth. I still hear the sounds of the march, “Black Lives Matter” “No justice, no peace.” I taste the names of the broken dead like sand between my teeth. Yes, too long have we dismissed these bones, bleached in the blistering sun. Too long have we collected them like souvenirs from bygone days. The summer of 2020 the ancestors and the flesh rose up together, again, again, again. It is a prayer to behold these apostles of equality, one by one claiming a just life, gushing through the city, a cascade of renewed strength. There is no river more beautiful than this. No water clearer than the words they carry. I pray this deluge flows into our blood flushes out the poison of racism - Only then can my Dead sing Songs of Praise.
Anke Hodenpijl believes the practice of writing brings her closer to life. Her work reflects on the intersections between immigration and assimilation, spirituality, family, racism, and sexuality. Her work is published in several anthologies and literary journals. She connects with other poets as a facilitator at the Art and Spirituality Center in Bakersfield and as a Critique Group leader with the Writers of Kern.
I love this one, Anke. It tells truths and gives hope. Thank you. xoA