Sunday, November 14

a well-bred woman


by Mervyn Taylor

She leaps to her feet
condemning the cops
who shot her son.

She turns into something
primitive screaming
the American word for

a man who sleeps with
his mother, whose mother
is a female dog.

She puts her hand over
her mouth as she hears
the keys rattle and they

are let out to walk free
on the green grass outside
the courthouse where

no lion is waiting
to eat them though she
prayed for one, no owl

hooting at the noonday
sun, no calamity like a
building waiting to fall

on the black sedan
that drives away
down the highway.

The reporters ask and
she tells them Amadou
is a common name

in her country, it is
like stones on the road
and there are many

fathers named Diallo.
They all rush out when
they hear the drums

saying your son
your son your son

Amadou they look

everywhere in the home
in the compound
in the cassava fields

down by the riverbanks
where the crocodiles
steal the goats

They search until
they remember the one
who went to America

Then they hug
the remaining Amadous
and weep

1 Comments:

Blogger Roy Naka said...

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October 11, 2005 at 8:59 AM  

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