I spake
I spake a blues
that wails up in my soul
and transcends
back in time
to ancestors
who survived the slave decks
of the middle passage
while eating from
a communal feeding bowl
using their bare hands
to eke out meager rations
of beans, corn, yams, rice, and palm oil

I spake
I spake a blues
that wails up in my soul
and regresses
back in time
to ancestors
who survived slavery
on small snippets of food
that were doled out once a week
and they learned how to make delectable dishes
using scraps of pork, cornmeal, molasses

I spake
I spake a blues
that wails up in my soul
and retreats
back in time
to Big Mama’s kitchen
where the ingenuity
of ancestors
allowed her to prepare gourmet dishes
that nourished our bodies and souls…
succulent hog maws and chitterlins,
finger-licking pig feet, pig ear, and pig tails,
lick-your-plate grits coated with red-eye gravy,
buttery hot water corn bread layered with molasses,
golden fried okra, and luscious, fat-back seasoned collard greens,
melt-in-your-mouth, candied yams served with field peas and rice,
lip-smacking hoecakes, heavenly sweet potato pies, 
and mouth watering peach cobblers

I spake
I spake a blues
I spake a blues poem
that wails up in my soul
and thanks God
for our resilient ancestors
who through their culinary brilliance
ensured our survival today