Woven Politics.

M-P

There was a pull of weary tears
and a push of shivering hands on rusted claws
catching the drunken sadness of a mother's land.
Ivory on Mahogany,
with elephants that can never forget
and trees too slow to remember
before both are extinct.
When they pulled the extension of kente cloth
the thread fell apart
and left her naked.
They were only too proud to rape her.

The long keen of Gaza went underneath
the last laughter of an exploding star
somewhere on the streets of the middle-east,
and everyone who flocked to die
was plucked and pushed
as well.

Six-pointed children of God flung themselves into furnaces
and steady fingers set their souls in place
with the rest of the world's steady homicidal digressions.

Women threw their daughters in the bowels of the ocean
and their tears slipped from dark slits
like a burial.
Tuck and pull,
over and under
went the compression of green strings as precious as gold
and it became the sunlight -
the very air man made us breath
or die for.

There was a darkness
like fingernails flashing before the lightening hit -
bright smiles before creation
and a black basket of politics.