For Joe Minter, the African Village in America, and 1504And when those white-sailed shipspiled us together, cargo in the hull of hell,the word rode with us, our tonguesanointed with the power of God.When the lash found our language,when they said don’t read or write,our tongues were still gilded with a heavenly word.We still sang that holy song,even in this strange land. Even here, God spoketo us and through us.Our hands made languageand earth became fruitful,and song became prayer,and a people made dowith the bones and scraps of america.And we became messengerswith each sin pitched against us—in Birmingham, there was Godin the feet of the marchersand in the starched collar of Fred Shuttlesworth,in the curls and dimplesof those four girls,in the boyish joy of Virgil and Johnnybefore their song was cut short.Messengers, all of us, speaking the wordGod left us in this weary land.Messengers with the word as their spear,messengers speaking life into each brick,each crop, each stitch, each book we made.And there is a messenger on Nassau Avenuewith the word clear and strong on his tongue,a warrior for the Lord, a servant of the word.And the ancestors find his brown handsand anoint them, and metal becomes message;wood and paint interpret scripture,the wind blows through, and there is God.In the beginning there was the word, and the word remains.We are a living tongue—the word is a torch and we tote it proudly,what you hear is our collective soul,what you see is love walking, God’s blueprint,ours is an unstoppable song.This poem is from Ashley M. Jones’s new book, Lullaby for the Grieving.