Deny not my bone and tightly packed meat under skin
like concrete, for why should I be soft?
I am a chip off the old mother-block,
on the old mother-shoulder,
a pebble in the tired mother-shoe.
Loud morning misunderstandings quake
the kitchen, and shifty, you
rinse emotional misdirection from the peppers in the sink.
A tectonic slip of the flint tongue draws blood, but this body holds
no kindling for burning, bleeding heart apologies.
Today I dip your thin, soft skin
in our thick, prideful tar sin.
Through this gravel throat, I refuse to plainly say
for joint hypocrisy and shame.
This is my heritage, the Jamaican mother’s way.
Tar and feather the fool who thinks this stone will burn.