There is no bed beneath dreams

Madagascar wove of children reaching

aphrodisiac watermelons, rind ground between

teeth and veins, time whittled

against dagger-thin ribs.


Therein the child sees fingers clasp watermelons

in the rain, whistling as his father

whistles for the matted dog in cassava brush

to clothe itself in their stray hut

from the animal greed of the skyborne vibrance.


Desperation is his dream, where

the little hands roam and bleed seedlings

for every golden drop of nectar

noontide malevolence does not suck

into the sky, away from his naked earth.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s