for Miss Eddie Faye Gates

they come. the youth, hungry for a foothold, a voice
to be heard. the elders, seasoned in bitter hope
& dismissed relevance. called not by a museum
but by a lightworker named eddie, who is not
male. who is a child of red dirt & hard promise

of cotton row heritage & we are here purpose.
she scribe, bearer of blood, blocks & elusive
justice. a griot mouthpiece, a name we know
from lifting other’s names. what love could be
greater? a rooted selflessness. a gift that outlives 

her flesh. this is legacy.  we live in a divisive now
as did she. token offerings veiled as repair, as
the history she unearthed is reburied at midnight
& noon. chasm in our understanding wide & empty
as a highway, an unmarked grave. & only three still 

on this side. from the other, countless wail remember
captured in moments miss gates curates. homemade
collector of homespun truths. & here, the elders sift
wisdom, knead knowledge. the young people consume
& share bread. miss gates blesses the table.