Life On the Floe - 2
The (Sahara) has its women, if only in its vapors and dust devils,
But on the floe you don't think of the flesh,
and you seldom remember it,
Except that which, with bare hand and bare wit,
you can catch and rip apart with your teeth.
There are nights, though. Quiet (for the floe)
when the pain of being human and alone
sends you whimpering back to the womb,
Dying for a rebirth.
Where, stripped of every last illusion, you rage at this alien awakening,
and clothe yourself in your own unique courage.
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