My Africa whose dry air is Sahara
Whose black skin haunts my dreams
And leads my thoughts
Whose white smile is stained with hunger
Whose hair is curled like Cyrtanthus
Whose eyes has seen Sheol
Whose ears have heard blood spilling like the rains of monsoon
My Africa whose land has swallowed men whole
Whose dust spreads across the mountains like ants carrying life
Whose water knows not the filter's passage
Whose exhausted feet have clubbed the long trails' rock
My Africa has many children
Who've breathed long breaths for their lost and wandering
My Africa has tasted two poisons
In the sweltering heat of her dark throat in sickness
In the pounding drums of AK47s
My Africa whose mind swells of packed lies, stored in harvest bundles
Whose pastures cup no rain
Whose land is beaten and barren as the unfaithful wife
Whose mountains cleave their young like hoarse dogs
Whose farms scatter into reckless neglect
Whose seeds grow fruit
For the fat and lonely far away
Whose soil drinks in the blood of mortality
Whose fig tree roots are fed to the holy ones
My Africa who abandons her kin like a shadow in the dark
And corrupts her sister to evil
Whose eyes are the jewels of kings long before
And hold secrets of the world in small crevasses
My Africa who sings deep and loud in her ribs
My Africa whose hands and feet move with the rhythm of the air
My Africa whose legs run with the lone leopard
Whose arms climb trees as monkeys
Whose spear pins down the elephant
Whose sweat pours from the oldest depths of the sea
Whose sex is stolen at her last tear
Whose hands plow the red dust for dying food, for re-birth, for early death
My Africa whose beer is stirred with scarred, lined hands
Whose tongue clicks with foreigners
Whose fear seals over her eyes like scales on a trout
My Africa whose flesh is rubbed with metal
Coughing black powder like the hyena
Whose hands search with envy, prying
All consuming of exotic potions that stain her soul and leave her wanting
My Africa whose neck is long and regal
My Africa with limbs forever cut and bleeding
My Africa sings the songs telling the wind and rain to quench life
By Jillian Theriault
