To the Poet Who Happens to Be Black and the Black Poet Who Happens to Be a Woman

     I
I was born in the gut of Blackness
from between my mother's particular thighs 
her waters broke upon blue-flowered lineoleum 
and turned to slush in the Harlem cold 
10 PM on a full moon's night
my head crested round as a clock
"You were so dark," my mother said 
"I thought you were a boy."

     II
The first time I touched my sister alive 
I was sure the earth took note
but we were not new
false skin peeled off like gloves of fire 
yoked flame I was
stripped to the tips of my fingers
her song written into my palms my belly nostrils welcome home
in a language I was pleased to relearn.

     III
No cold spirit ever strolled through my bones
on the corner of Amsterdam Avenue 
no dog mistook me for a bench
nor a tree nor a bone
no lover envisioned my plump brown arms 
as wings nor misnamed me condor
but I can recall without counting
eyes
cancelling me out
like an unpleasant appointment 
postage due
stamped in yellow red purple
any color
except Black and choice
and woman
alive.

     IV
I cannot recall the words of my first poem 
but I remember a promise
I made my pen
never to leave it 
lying
in somebody else's blood.