The Black Monarch

Charity Williams

It always seemed to last longer than was expected

that so called evening when we got together at the palace,

the queen was seated at the hearth as the screams and shouts of thankful mercy

surrounded her, she gracefully

remained in her bloodstained throne

and stayed the same age even as centuries seemed to move

and told us stories, details of her life in white hot fields

with scars that served as the family crest and pain

lodged into her memory, silver linings

encrusted in agonizing misfortune that turned into liquid gold,

while the large clan that bloomed from her bosom listened

with oos and aas, girls and boys reveled in her glory

around her iron-willed faith. We worshipped her cooking,

sweet potatoes extracted by bent backs from the African plains,

tender greens forged by calloused fingertips that we couldn’t detect

our perfection, or maybe that was the reason

to come together and the exact place where we were all one.