A Poem by Ashley M. Jones: ‘In the Beginning, There Was the Word’

For Joe Minter, the African Village in America, and 1504And when these white-sailed shipspiled us collectively, cargo within the hull of hell,the phrase rode with us, our tonguesanointed with the ability of God.When the lash discovered our language,after they mentioned don’t learn or write,our tongues had been nonetheless gilded with a heavenly phrase.We nonetheless sang that holy track,even on this unusual land. Even right here, God spoketo us and thru us.Our arms made languageand earth turned fruitful,and track turned prayer,and a folks made dowith the bones and scraps of america.And we turned messengerswith every sin pitched towards us—in Birmingham, there was Godin the toes of the marchersand within the starched collar of Fred Shuttlesworth,within the curls and dimplesof these 4 ladies,within the boyish pleasure of Virgil and Johnnybefore their track was lower brief.Messengers, all of us, talking the wordGod left us on this weary land.Messengers with the phrase as their spear,messengers talking life into every brick,every crop, every sew, every e-book we made.And there’s a messenger on Nassau Avenuewith the phrase clear and powerful on his tongue,a warrior for the Lord, a servant of the phrase.And the ancestors discover his brown handsand anoint them, and metallic turns into message;wooden and paint interpret scripture,the wind blows via, and there may be God.At first there was the phrase, and the phrase stays.We’re a residing tongue—the phrase is a torch and we tote it proudly,what you hear is our collective soul,what you see is love strolling, God’s blueprint,ours is an unstoppable track.This poem is from Ashley M. Jones’s new e-book, Lullaby for the Grieving.​While you purchase a e-book utilizing a hyperlink on this web page, we obtain a fee. Thanks for supporting The Atlantic.