two boys are throwing stones
into the river—their mother
is beating colored dresses
against a small rock—there is
a dye in the stream—an
unfamiliar face splashes
against the surface of the
stream—the afternoon
steam swims toward
God—then darkness
happens—then we are taken
into the room where the
woman is sitting in a
corner—calling her children,
waiting for their voices, or
their footsteps—through the
small window we see a man
fixing his roof—the trees
that line Felele are palms and
baobabs leaning into
silence—the wind weaving a
song with their
branches—when the echoes
arrive the woman is
sleeping—it’s her innocence
to absence, the opaqueness
of rain filling her
dream—when the echoes
arrive the woman is
sleeping—dreaming of her
boys throwing stones in the
river where she was beating
colored cloths against the
rock—where an unfamiliar
face is filling the shallow
with thirst—