My granpa returned to the essence
without listening to my seasoned callaloo.
84 years he stirred his
mastery in oral tradition
flying turtles, recluse witches adorned
his magical belief in story time.
this little light of mine
I'm gon let it shine

His myths lit dark corners of myself.
A home built with his corn stalk
fingers. I'd heard sour speech
repeated it until a switch peeled
my hind parts. Unable to escape granma
granpa coined a mantra
don't hurt da ant-nee
don't hurt da ant-nee.
this little light of mine
I'm gon let it shine
I imagine having spiritual power.
Once I'm released from this house of shame
the point of my spoken word
will weave narrative quilts from dreams.
During a visit granpa said I have a story to tell
Yes! Prison can't hurt d ant-nee
this little light of mine
I'm gon let it shine.
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