The Flower Of The Calabash

I give you the curve of my back
contorted into C’s shape
supported by herring rods and cut vertebrate
in the crowded marché
of masks and walking sticks
and in between my perusal of mud cloth and talking drums
I clearly hear the march of your tuna cans,
your prosthesis of thrown away tin,
your invention for moving through the world.

by Octavia McBride Ahebee

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