A Bronzeville Mother Loiters in Mississippi. Meanwhile, a Mississippi Mother Burns Bacon.

They tell me
I must be frank.
My son’s name is
Andrew.
And he wears the
silver shoes.

(When I think of somebody’s son)
But I am not here to
say anything of anybody’s
son.

My son, Andrew,
was my toy!
I gave him the best.
How could I help? He
was my son!
I made the mother’s
love the only important thing.

But I must be frank.
I know,
this must be history’s question.
Why did he
set again my fears?

Humming under my son’s shadow
my sole face did not match the
heritage to which he belonged.

(Because he died with blood on) his -bare feet, and because in the morning the flowers bore his scent. And scabbed shoes beside me turn burning flames.)

I must tell you again,
I must be frank
(There is no joy)
in Mississippi.

My son!
He was born of me!
I go,
I go,
(through the summer)
without my burns—you dare not
take my son, away from my
own history!

But there is no more
to say or do—
And no one appointed
my despair

yet I swear to
the flame around my son.
O, beauty of his scent!
Life belongs to love all day long.
There is no feeling,
from the bronze warmth of the
Little Sons and Mothers of the night!

• Gwendolyn Brooks