And in the middle of the dozens
he stated those infamous words,
"Yo mama is so Black..."
And I interrupted him,
"Yes, my mama is so Black."
	
My mama is so Black
that night is God's abstract portrait of her.
She is so Black that Africa herself
is the dark womb from which she sprang.
She is so Black
that moonlit shadows dance their
rhythmic ecstacy in praise
of her dark power.
My mama is so Black
that midnight sings her worship
and the sun itself bows nightly
to her dark embrace.

And in the end I asked him,
"How Black is yo Mama?"