i am accused of tending to the past
as if i made it,
as if i sculpted it
with my own hands. i did not.
this past was waiting for me
when i came,
a monstrous unnamed baby,
and i with my mother’s itch
took it to breast
and named it
History.
she is more human now,
learning languages everyday,
remembering faces, names and dates.
when she is strong enough to travel
on her own, beware, she will.
- Lucille Clifton
(Quilting, 1991)
*
Lucille Clifton’s poetry is marvelous for so many reasons, but I’ve always admired her dynamic range, the way she could craft the playful “Homage to My Hips” in one verse and the deep philosophical questioning of “slaveship” in another, all the while remaining grounded in the loving affirmations of a communal self. Carleen honors Clifton’s life with “New Bones”; Susan has a video clip of “Won’t You Celebrate With Me”; Tayari Jones remembers the poet with “here rests”; and a year ago, Consuela listed “Homage to My Hips” as one of the Black Things We Love.
For this week’s C.O.R.A. Diversity Roll Call, participants are asked 
sunny Acapulco.
