I will not do this without you.

You know what it means to wait.

You know what it means to hope.

You know what it means to work.

You know what it means to try.

You know what it means to hear cries you cannot soothe.

You know what it means to bind wounds

and to sit in silence with the broken-hearted,

to squeal for joy in code.

I will not do this without you.

You know what it means to resist,

to refuse to wear the cloak of the dead,

to refuse to dance to the song

of the one who holds the whip.

You know what it means

to pull from the storehouse of dreams

and to make something life-giving for everyone 

out of the scraps of the nothing they didn’t want.

I will not do this without you.

You know what it means to be 

the least likely,

the last one expected,

the “you have never been enough,”

but now you must be 

because

you were visited in the night

by a miracle – one that you must

carry until it lives.

I will not do this without you.

I sing songs of liberation built on

the chords of melodies you sang long ago.

I hold my head up high, still, even, despite, through – 

because you told me there was music in the air.

There is a God.

Somewhere.

There is. 

I keep pressing on because 

you etched with your fingers

signs and arrows,

determined that I would find a way.

I will not do this without you.

Not now.

I’m too far gone down the road

to turn back now.

Whatchu say now?

Yes, Mary did run this way,

headed fast to a world not like this.

Keep calling, my Sisters.

Yes, Elizabeth took a post on the edge of the wilderness, looking for anyone who needed a safe place to rest.

Keep singing, my Mothers.

Keep beckoning, my Fathers.

Keep whispering, my Brothers.

Keep shining, my Niblings. 

I see you.

I need you.

I will not do this without you.