Trying to Find Nat Turner; Homegoing

I close my eyes to meditate.I see a black hand pass over the sun,a signal to act.I wear his skull like a helmet.I disturb his rest and his form.I don’t know what to do, or who I should follow,but I need him to knowI will not give up on revolution. I’m not Nat, but I’m close. I was at the rebellion. You have no idea how to write this poem. You don’t know how to feel what you need to.. This poem is a psalm, and to write a psalm, you don’t need to be a prophet. There is a gap between freedom and liberation. Is it revolution? I don’t know. Possibly. My hand is passing over you. You are marked to be delivered. You spill blood because you are obedient.His unmarked headstonelike a knuckle bulges from the earth.I had to go up—away from my mother’s home,My time is still unfolding,but I needed to stayahead of it. Even above it,but I couldn’t just ascend.On the street corner, I sawa clown in a church-ready suitand two too-big shoes waiting.I gave him all the lungs of my peoplefor his balloons to go home to my futurebut nothing happened.I was a spectacle on the streetas the bus pulled away.A passenger asked the clownwhat the lungs were for.Anything I like.