Florence

Florence has warm blood and cowrie teeth that seldom clatter, even in the chilled, fluttering dance of July rain. She’s an element of Shiloh in weeping quest of a promising Samuel, and for this, walks through long and clammy paths in July rain. July, a month of sacred yams, with breast tubers and milk tendrils, befriends Florence, an eloquent lamenter, the quintessence of languor, this day of streaming showers. I have often had her tears on my palms — tears that sob gently, lest the temple yonder hears her and pronounces them FAITHLESS. Florence, battered in the rain, frazzled by extreme caution, with ambiance of July and naivete of the grey ewe, has prayed for her breasts, for her milk and for the growth of her stunted soul. I, too, have prayed — for the rebirth of the seventh moon, for Florence and her bedraggled sorrows, and for strength on behalf of our weakened village.