Plain and simple like the lofty fascinations of a little child;
The words themselves,
A whirling Indian monsoon backed by a willing current,
I suffer sun stroke and dire contusions, Dried brittle knees from a crisp cut-throat
Sun of an angry black woman.
She can feel me too!
The splintered rays fuming with a fiery hunger,
I devour the roots, stems
Turn them loose and naked
My rage is evident in the barks of a dying tree,
Dead and still dying with its lone raven eagle losing the
Distinction of its distinct crowned feathers
And you are there —
little stubborn thing
Parched in the rage of my insatiable desert.
I implore you,
And yet through all this,
She still finds the strenght
The laugh of saturated ease.
(And your lady friend
What kind of a woman is this?)