You Haven'T Met Her
Of course, you have not met her,
by Musaemura Bonas Zimunya
Loveness, the sunshine of the city,
once the honey-pie of the ghetto,
the sugar-loaf of the township
and now the ice-cream cone itself.
The white mini-skirt clung to her figure
like icing on a cake.
her breasts plunged ram-horns
in the hearts of men.
Her fried eggs broke a marriage contract
now Tito's home is a village wound
that babbles with the gossip
and the bitter cries of a mother.
Tattered, the children's bottoms
have taken the hue of ash-earth.
Sam, the little one
has a head the size of two footballs
his bones and ribs
cry for an enumerator.