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Summer Fauve
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Rhiannon Drop the Burden

But I
I choose the black child
Can my womb fill its need?
Harsh with longing
Burdened with desire that
Hardens
It is the armour
The boa constrictor
Lethally coiled around my navel
And the child starves
In an indolent oasis of glazed leisure
Where grace cannot reach it
Until the fiery hand reaches down
And the axe falls then
Life is forgotten
And
We will rush out amidst the
Burning in our throats
To the last true song of the nightingale.
Summer Fauve (c) 1996