They sing how rage felled the moonlit evening

where exactly it was
she first began screaming

that shook the pretty stars —

how his arms lifted   precisely
     to lower    her body

and of her flung body.    They sing also

of a long eerie silence which came
            from their mud & wattle hut

the following day
and of the next day too, they sing

how it first looked when she appeared
                                                        barely
                                                            walking
                                                 a bruise
darker than skin
   on her body      still weeping still raised

they sing

with bushels balanced on top of their heads
         a steady song of him

deep into African fields

where he is
         slashing to bring down the husks

and continue even   while fists   of sun
                                                                        light
                  beat
                           about

until a blushed shade of dusk brings him homeward
in shame.

[first appeared in Out of Line: Summer 2002]

Therése Halscheid