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Survival or God Fed Us From a Finger (sonnet)

Dark crop ravaged from land of native seeds

Bound in tight bushels, down in a barrel

Carted, spat on soil elders did not see

Culture, tongues, past-gone the three essentials

Ancestors, the chefs, showed us what to do

Dandelion greens, chit'lins, tongue-garbage

Cooked as a thick prayer make-it-stretch stew

Carried bad eating habits like baggage

Huddled in enclaves dispersed far from home

Remembering rhythms of djembe drum

Food dipped in soul spices, we shine like chrome

Scraps to meals bound us like naps conundrum

Distant lands not ready for arrival

Recipe for death became survival