Africa
is dying under the only sun hot enough to
keep its dead warm.
It's bleached bones against red sands and
black hills made of hulking rocks.
Africa
is the hollow drum in a chest cavity
beating a tattoo to tribal dances of the past.
It is a grave with thorny flowers, mint trees
bluegum and blackjacks.
It is the ancient bird calling out to lost spirits
as it soars through the cloudless skies.
Africa is a bucket and a washcloth atop a
grave and a conversation with yellow
bones.
It's grumpy chickens squawking by the
ashes of a fire with their broods dreaming
beneath them.
It's narrow rivers, leading into sinking
dams, and lonely lakes crying for rain.
Africa is a cape shore with shells lying
untouched on white sand.
It's a tortoise overcoming its nature and
beating the hare in a race for survival
It's the cloud hovering over a low dinner table
presided by the devil.
It's cold, cold waves which once carried
prisoners back to captivity
It's a body overlooked by hungry sharks
who gnaw on legs.
It's the tuna's mouth just barely grazing mine,
Cape lights skimming over the water's top,
And mermaids singing to those lost beneath the sea.
