Sunday, February 6, 2011

Out of One Many Africas

For the handful of Continent Cliff Hangers That Have Found Me, Despite the Distance

Out of One, Many Africas

Draft #2

No one could split us like we split us
here, where we were born,
in the April of our sour left to fester

In the maple of our mothers turned amber,
Your mother,
in her Josephine hidden
a boarded bosom and wrapped head away from bare chest
Mine, tribal marks and accented away from mammy.
Our mothers

Will sit and talk of in third person
The people their daughters
Call sister,
Call brother

Wash the work and human
of their jobs that help
“those people”
off as quickly as sweat


They will forget themselves,
their second generation children
The hypocrisy, lack of meaning
that comes in the niggerdom
they let slip.

And after, perhaps,
they will both go pray
and Mine will be distracted
by the skin of yours
glinting golden pink,
the accent too, for once
that makes her
some latitudes and languages
and latitudes closer to God

They will be praying to the same one,
in the same mosque,
maybe,

If all the others burn down
and neither
“African” nor “Arab”
can find a place to go.

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