Rya's Rites - A Poem by Rosemarie

her broom. the sand of her yard. the bare feet of morning. sweeping circles in the dirt-dust. in the sun-rising. stick broom of straw. her breath. the strength of her heart. old strength. old love humming. sweeping a company for the sun. circles in the red dust. circles in the new air. stick trace. straw trace. passing straw along the ground. passing leaves along the ground. a little wind to move death.

My great grandmother rose mornings before the household, washed her face and hands, rinsed her mouth. She climbed down the porch stairs to the backyard and chose between her fishing pole and her circle broom. The broom came first.

Mama Rya is the furthest back we know. They say she was an African. Landed in Virginia. In slavery-time she worked for the captain of a steamer, up and down the Carolina and Georgia coasts. She cooked. Some of her children died. Some of them she couldn’t keep. The last three, born close on to Freedom stayed with her. One by the captain, she named Ella; two by a man she loved, she named Liza and Currie.

My sister Alma is a praying woman. All of my sisters are praying women. When I am sick, Alma tells me Mama Rya prayed for my health. All of our health. All of our blessing. All of our coming through. Her children, their children, their children’s children.

Mama Rya bends low and breathes on the sand. makes wind circles on the sand of her yard. sweeps death loose from georgia red dirt. cleanses it of venom. passes leaves over the deaths of her children. over the loss of her children. makes lines stretch. makes prayers stretch. passes straw over grief gone and coming. gives us a place in the world. long-breathed prayer in labor. a way to heal. a trace…

Rosemarie Freeney Harding Copyright © 1998