Blood river train

by on Wednesday, 22 April 2009 Comments
When time works against us
and weighs at the heart
somewhere in a foreign land,
night turns to day, and
the fashion in shop windows
I pass on my way from work
in Paris, London or New York
where I live into djellabas, the smell
of restaurants into kuskus
on market day,
hands out, stretched
to accept this gift of walking
in the shadow of African people,
with their fear of anchored boats
on coastal fronts. History
is in the present. On
a young night that is day
I go inland where spear fights musket,
and I join the battle on the river
that filled with blood, our phagocyte
impi sieging their laager in anger.
On the metro of the morning,
Le Monde in my hands and
work on my mind, there’s always
a part of Africa that yearns
for me, for my presence, my flesh,
beyond the clatter of the train
needling beneath the capital
into the reconciliation of our time,
before the evening of my days.

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