Things and Time

When famine raised its gruesome head
we raid the orange fields at night.
Poison Ivy on fragile skin,
the torment augmented by the dew on the Angola grass.
Torn shirt, torn trousers, and torn flesh
from those damn rusted barb wire.
Mama would be more torn
if she gathers we fulfilled our stomach's desire.

The sun awoke red on Mama’s bed,
and the white man raced to get dressed.
Junebo coiled like a fetus
And moan repeatedly,
under orange flavored breath:
“I hate her, I hate her.”
We were all torn,
 but she did what she did to put food on the table.

My heart goes out to Mary, the female of the bunch.
“Don’t you ever do what Mama does, But do what she says.”
God filled Mama with the Holy Ghost that Sunday,
‘cause I heard her spoke with tongues.
I supposed God does not care no more,
 or something is terribly wrong.

That mound of dirt outside Mama's window,
under the great-big-old mango tree,
was my favorite place in the world to be;
 tis Pa’s final resting place.
I’ve chat with him so often,
Though the good book says the dead can’t hear.
Twas a way to release the nothingness in my heart.