Inheritance/Improvisation . Inheritance. I wasn't raised to call myself Black, Indian, Chinese-- "You're human," said my parents. That was all.
By the west window sits a Chinese camphor chest folded full of blankets and grandmother's dresses. Tiny Chinese bones she had. They'll never fit me but the fabric's pretty.
Atop the chest: a set of Mali drums. Oh yeah, I play the djembe... some... My father's folk, in distant history-- you understand, that link is lost to me. All I have now is echo.
Improvisation. On the eastern wall a saxophonist plays. Black, yellow, red his clothes. His notes escape the frame and fall like water on imaginary ears. He's got good roots. The cross-bred tree grows tall.