River

String of life,

River, feed us your dark

drops . snake through the

village so we can flock to

you, hands and hooves out-

stretched; have mercy

and come when we call

you, digging in your dried

up promises, watching

for holes to slowly fill

with mud. we will drink it.

and when you teem with

darkness, we strip to

our ebony bones and throw

our clothes on the rocks

of your body. over and over

we slam colored cloths,

grunting to take out the sweat

and filth of our lives.

smoky swirls of peanut

soap suds and filth released swim

down river to the next

group of black skeleton women,

beating their only threads into

grey ghost whirls. this too,

we will drink. plastic and gourd

dishes and babies and each other's

backs and our own sore

arms and legs-- we wash these

too, dousing them in you, shining

majestic towers of our bodies

pause to reflect in your

contesting blackness. it's been

hard days, and you've seen

it all. you watch us sing

and weep and throw ourselves

on your shores, between broken moons

you take it in, reflecting back

our bones and furrows among

ripples, as if

to say, "I see, is it something

like this?" but you have it

backwards, always.

you only know the trees and

shade as your neighbors, and

our sighs as we splash our burning

faces. but when we fill gourds on

our heads and wrap up with

un-dried pagnes with babies

on our backs, you

squint at the dust that

ambushes on the path

away from

you