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taunt
    the sullen wind.
    xli
    A crumbling hut…
    in the third
    room
    a red chenille
    bedspread
    (by Cannon)
    a cracked
    jar
    of violet
    lilies
    (by?)
    xlii
    The native women
    thought me
    strange
    until they
    saw me follow you
    to your hut.
    xliii
    In Kampala
    the young king
    goes often
    to Church
    the young girls here
    are
    So pious.
    xliv
    Settled behind
    tall banana trees
    the little hut
    is overcovered
    by their leaves
    patiently it waits
    for autumn
    which never comes.…
    xlv
    in my journal
    I thought I could
    capture
    everything.…
    Listen!
    the soft wings of cranes
    sifting the salt sea
    air.
    * Kikuyu clan name indicating honorary acceptance into the Leopard clan.
    * A food staple of the Buganda in Uganda, made from plantains.

LOVE
    i
    A dark stranger
    My heart searches
    Him out
    “Papa!”
    ii
    An old man in white
    Calls me “mama”
    It does not take much
    To know
    He wants me for
    His wife—
    He has no teeth
    But is kind.
    iii
    The American from
    Minnesota
    Speaks Harvardly
    of Revolution—
    Men of the Mau Mau
    Smile
    Their fists holding
    Bits of
    Kenya earth.
    iv
    A tall Ethiopian
    Grins at me
    The grass burns
    My bare feet.
    v
    Drums outside
    My window
    Morning whirls
    In
    I have danced all
    Night.
    vi
    The bearded Briton
    Wears a shirt of
    Kenya flags
    I am at home
    He says.
    vii
    Down the hill
    A grove of trees
    And on this spot
    The magic tree.
    viii
    The Kenya air!
    Miles of hills
    Mountains
    And holding both
    My hands
    A Mau Mau leader.
    ix
    And in the hut
    The only picture—
    Of Jesus
    x
    Explain to the
    Women
    In the village
    That you are
    Twenty
    And belong—
    To no one.

KARAMOJANS
    i
    A tall man
    Without clothes
    Beautiful
    Like a statue
    Up close
    His eyes
    Are running
    Sores.
    ii
    The Noble Savage
    Erect
    No shoes on his
    feet
    His pierced ears
    Infected.
    iii
    “Quite incredible—
    your hair-do is
    most divine——
    Held together
    With cow dung?
    You mean——?!
    The lady stares
    At her fingers.
    iv
    A proper English meal
    Near the mountains
    “More tea, please”
    Down the street
    A man walks
    Quite completely
    Nude.
    v
    Bare breasts loose
    In the sun
    The skin cracked
    The nipples covered
    With flies
    But she is an old
    Woman
    What?—twenty?
    vi
    A Catholic church
    The chaste cross
    Stark
    Against the purple sky.
    We surprise a
    couple there alone
    In prayer?
    vii
    There is no need for
    Sadness
    After the dying boy
    There is the living girl
    Who throws you a kiss.
    viii
    How bright the little
    girl’s
    Eyes were!
    a first sign of
    Glaucoma.
    ix
    The Karamojans
    Never civilized
    A proud people
    I think there
    Are
    A hundred left.

ONCE
    i
    Green lawn
    a picket fence
    flowers—
    My friend smiles
    she had heard
    that Southern
    jails
    were drab.
    Looking up I see
    a strong arm
    raised
    the Law
    Someone in America
    is being
    protected
    (from me.)
    In the morning
    there was
    a man in grey
    but the sky
    was blue.
    ii
    “Look at that nigger
    with those white folks!”
    My dark
    Arrogant friend
    turns calmly, curiously
    helpfully,
    “Where?” he
    asks.
    It was the fifth
    arrest
    In as many
    days
    How glad I am
    that I can
    look
    surprised
    still.
    iii
    Running down
    Atlanta
    streets
    With my sign
    I see heads
    turn
    Eyes
    goggle
    “a nice girl
    like her!”
    A Negro cook
    assures
    her mistress—
    But I had seen
    the fingers
    near her eyes
    wet with
    tears.
    iv
    One day in
    Georgia
    Working around
    the Negro section
    My friend got a
    letter
    in
    the mail
    —the letter
    said
    “I hope you’re
    having a good
    time fucking all
    the niggers.”
    “Sweet,” I winced.
    “Who
    wrote it?”
    “mother.”
    she
    said.
    That day she sat
    a long time
    a little black girl
    in pigtails
    on her lap
    Her eyes were very
    Quiet.
    She used to tell the big colored ladies
    her light eyes just
    the same
    “I am alone
    my mother died.”
    Though no other
    letter
    came.
    v
    It is true—
    I’ve always loved
    the daring
    ones
    Like the black young
    man
    Who tried
    to crash
    All barriers
    at