Like it was a scene in some Romare Bearden painting
The mother of the mother of God lives
Over by the railroad tracks
Making do on
Just under seven thousand dollars a year,
Holding her family together with heart-sewn threads
Prayer-lit candles
Serious black-eyed peas and menudo.
The mother of the mother of God
Probably didn't finish high school,
Certainly didn't get a degree,
Likely speaks Spanish
And definitely expects you to finish your homework
And let her know
Where you're going,
Who with,
And how long you're going to be there.
The mother of the mother of God
Recognizes injustice and long odds
And keeps these things hidden in her heart
- until she's ready to speak her mind.
She enfolded Simon Rodia in the crook of her arm
“Clad in tattered overalls and a dusty fedora”
As he, like her, made life out of nothing -
just workin' with the scraps you was given -
Twisted railroad ties, pottery shards, glass marbles
and poetry:
a veritable vertical midden of the century's first half, a
“jazz cathedral” to all things unseen, possible and imagined.
His towers rising majestic into the big empty sky
Pointing the only way out of dire circumstance:
Hard work and dedication, open heart and imagination.
Santa Ana Boulevard, the mother of the mother of God,
Tires of her neighborhood's “concentrated poverty” and
Maybe even more,
Tires of the endless studies and news reports about it
That don't do anything about it while she
Works odd jobs in the “informal economy”
comin' home after work late -
Just another boulevard, nothing much you'd think twice about,
Just one more black or brown mother with
Eyes withdrawn while she
Worries about the rent and the
Children getting home safe
And the
Children nothing much Los Angeles thinks about either
But, you know?
Simon Rodia was nothing much you'd think about:
Think about that.
And that Boulevard? Santa Ana?
She turns around and lets wail a full-throttle throaty saxophone trail
You never know who will turn out to be
the mother
of the mother
of God
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