This is a garden. A garden that is willing to be June Jordan's garden. It is a very special garden because a Jamaican wind is howling far from the distance, at dawn. There are some dark chains trying to bother a tulip. How could dark chains bother a tulip from June Jordan's garden? I do not know but History certainly does. Why should a wind bother a tulip born from the belly of a wide Sargasso Sea, across the boats. History is seen as a wild flower over the seas; history is sea, history, history is June's breath, spreading its foam all over June's garden. This is a garden. Not only a lovely one, but a single garden, property of a black female poet, born in Stuyvesant Street, near all Harlem full moons, all skyscrapers, all skins. This is her garden searching for beauty, equality, freedom and love. This is a tulip. It belongs to black female poet named June Jordan. A black tulip, indeed. Is this a tulip? Is this a garden with a tulip? Does June Jordan's property turn out to be a black tulip? I do not know. I do not care. Who can possess a tulip, a black tulip? Only June Jordan has tasted that experience. She owns this black tulip as she owns this garden, a very special garden, on the Pacific coast. Should I recall that black tulips are only possessed by poets like June Jordan? I do not have a correct answer for that. I would not know. This is a