"Cross"
My old man's a white old man
And my old mother's black.
If ever I cursed my white old man
I take my curses back.
If ever I cursed my black old mother
And wished she were in hell,
I'm sorry for that evil wish
And now I wish her well.
My old man died in a fine big house.
My ma died in a shack.
I wonder where I'm going to die,
Being neither white nor black?
The final two lines of the poem serve as a jarring turning point, or what would be a volta in a sonnet. The previous 12 lines of the poem are organized into simple, declarative thoughts. There is not the least bit of uncertainty by the speaker, and that is reiterated by the simple word choice and form. The speaker has made peace with his past in the first 12 lines, but as he or she begins to look ahead to the future, then the question of identity becomes very uncertain. 

Cross