'Ladder for Booker T. (in chaos),' by Regina Berg

Ladder for Booker T. (in chaos)
A Reflection on “A Ladder for Booker T. Washington” by Martin Puryear

Beneath my feet I feel the fierce quake
in my ancestor’s arms, whose fingers clutch
only
air below democracy’s bottom rung,
hands shuddering with dammed rage unspoken
for the bitterness raped into my grandfather’s
near white skin.

And this twisting white ash apparition
hovering ungrounded is nothing––
Jacob’s angels would use to call me home,
its bottom rung forever a finger’s
length from my highest leap.

What can I say
to you who suffocated in the pit
america dug beneath our feet,
that your hands held dreams too small
to raise me?

Where can I find purchase
for my fingers when I am quicksanded
in history, arms un-muscled, malnourished
by the bitter gruel of an american dream?

From the back of my mother bent
over bathtub washboards,
over her grandmother bent over
backyard boiling pots of Mississippi
white folks’ sheets over
body over un-named black body,
wrenching myself over
the backs my ancestors offer me,
all for a chance
to prove that I have nothing
to prove.

Still the terror encased in the steel of my spine
drips yellow when this ladder shudders
at the mere draft of my hand, and
I am hanging in midair, lynched
on a ladder of pipe dreams.

On a ladder of pipe dreams.
I am hanging in midair, lynched
at the mere draft of my hand, and
drip yellow when this ladder shudders.

The terror is encased in the steel of my spine
to prove,
to prove that I have nothing?

All for a chance
the backs my ancestors offer me.
Wrenching myself over
body
over un-named black body,
and white folks’ sheets in
backyard boiling pots of Mississippi
over my grandmother bent over
over bathtub washboards.
From the back of my mother bent
by the bitter gruel of an american dream.
For this history, arms un-muscled, malnourished.
For my fingers when I am quicksanded.

Where can I find purchase
to raise me?
Your hands held no dreams too small.
America dug beneath our feet.
To you who suffocated in the pit,
what can I say?

From my highest leap
its bottom rung is forever
a finger’s length.
Jacob’s angels would
not use to call me home,
a hovering ungrounded nothing.
This twisting white ash apparition is so
near to white skin.

And the bitterness raped into my grandfather’s
hands, shudders with dammed rage unspoken
below democracy’s bottom rung.
In my ancestor’s arms, whose fingers clutch only
air beneath my feet. I feel a fierce quake.

Regina Berg is an emerging poet from Chicago, IL. now residing in Pflugerville, TX. She writes from the intersection of memory and curiosity. Her poem “In My Mother’s Last Garden” appeared recently in Bluebird Word.