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Poem

The rim of my Erembe in hand,
her quiet pace remains.

Today the Angolan sky spills liquid of my breast,
while her breath smothers the blank sounds
of the tired plains
(Colors of snowbird’s crest)
woven with the smoke and strain 
of yesterday.

My little Faiza, how were you able to run?

She carries the lone gaze of hours 
dizzily felt four and twenty ago:
the shedding, scraping of blood,
our village skin melts neath the sun,
color of cocoa,
scent of smoking gun.

Bear not burden or shame
upon your desperate frame,
my daughter.

Her face and a diamond linger
I know the worth each brings
(Special love and a shiny finger)

Such pretty things may bring about
a slaughter.

Though never 
the same,
Though never 
together,
each possesses a facet of pain.

The rim of my Erembe in hand,
her quiet pace remains.

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