Below is a poem written by Donna Olivia Powell during the January 2008 Ministry and Imagination Course (Generativity). The studio mentor who guided this process was Rev. Dr. Mariah Britton. The woman who inspired this poem is Anne Spencer, Donna's maternal grandmother. She is pictured in the above images. If you look carefully, you'll see a young Donna sleeping (or feigning sleep) on the couch in the bottom image.
On That Morning
On that morning
final moments mirrored her genesis,
surrounded by life-giving water.
Immersed deep in mother’s womb,
purified in craw-footed tub.
It would be her last bath.
On that morning
there was no sound.
No Mahalia moaning from the record player downstairs.
No vacuum cleaner sucking around hard plastic covered sofas.
No scream if she had indeed felt pain.
I heard nothing.
On that morning
liniment and lavender relieved
aches last night’s whiskey did not.
The smell of thick-rind bacon,
near done eggs should beckon me from slumber.
that moment never came.
On this morning
when we weren’t learning lessons of hard work
we waved and smiled and fought
see who would go for her taste or nip (as she called it).
Some houses down a blind man sold anointed brown waters.
With each swallow she grinned.
Grandma was not the sipping kind.
On this morning
seven years calmed by carolina air.
New York had seen her vibrant, raucous and curious.
Carefree even from seventeen children and three husbands
and some other men of no consequence.
Her hips were magical
birthing babies, brawling in bars.
She did her own thang.
But, on that morning
bluish-green air hung heavy in the house
tasting like sweet bath water.
Fleshy self lay saturated in scented seas
no longer stained, soaking in newness.
It was her last bath.
On that morning
final moments mirrored her genesis,
surrounded by life-giving water.
Immersed deep in mother’s womb,
purified in craw-footed tub.
It would be her last bath.
On that morning
there was no sound.
No Mahalia moaning from the record player downstairs.
No vacuum cleaner sucking around hard plastic covered sofas.
No scream if she had indeed felt pain.
I heard nothing.
On that morning
liniment and lavender relieved
aches last night’s whiskey did not.
The smell of thick-rind bacon,
near done eggs should beckon me from slumber.
that moment never came.
On this morning
when we weren’t learning lessons of hard work
we waved and smiled and fought
see who would go for her taste or nip (as she called it).
Some houses down a blind man sold anointed brown waters.
With each swallow she grinned.
Grandma was not the sipping kind.
On this morning
seven years calmed by carolina air.
New York had seen her vibrant, raucous and curious.
Carefree even from seventeen children and three husbands
and some other men of no consequence.
Her hips were magical
birthing babies, brawling in bars.
She did her own thang.
But, on that morning
bluish-green air hung heavy in the house
tasting like sweet bath water.
Fleshy self lay saturated in scented seas
no longer stained, soaking in newness.
It was her last bath.
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