Africa was in her eyes
sang chants of home in her heart,
even though the days of deserts and dusts
had been gone from her feet for many cracked summers.
Her skin yearned for weathering, for hours
under a brutal master of cancerous heat,
for rougher roads and shoeless callouses
pounding on unpaved paths.
Her ears cried for the pulse of hands on leather,
the dance of drums and the whisper of painted faces.
Only noises of the earth could comfort.
And yet, her skin touched no paint, but rather the too-soft caresses of
chemical clothes, and felt not the
warmth of clear copper skies,
but the hands of polluted streams
spouted through the air through mechanical jungle cats.
Her voice, clear and deep and beautiful,
like an alto sun bursting through a mesa,
no longer sung, but flatly stated proposals for a company,
in a chemical suit and a building of plastic.
Her heart, yearning for a home of old,
knew not that home anymore,
but an unhappy one, with orders and frowns,
one of clock-in and clock-out, and ticking minute hands.
And home was only
dark rooms with bills to pay,
with Lifetime movies and greasy delivery.
Her tongue tasted of nothing
but flavorless words and bland foods.
There was nothing but unsatisfied smiles forced
and forgotten homelands, desperately wanting to be remembered.
