From a window opposite
I see a strenuous fine female
straddling Africa to nowhere.
Breathing through a stomach from
her past African experiences.
She is stoical as she could ever be,
it’s her African story.
She carries humiliation in a damp shroud,
but still squints at a faraway Africa that
might ignite when she’s no more.
She’s leaving, carrying her lit stalagmite.
Poor woman, where is she going to go?