The Burning Fire

Skin like ebony against
bright cotton cloth
on the clean single bed
there are safety belts
in the scrubbed room
nothing’s out of order
 
everything is so white
 
flick of a finger
banishes a bubble
she sees the reflection of light
in the point of the needle
and in clear polished glasses
where one black speck
would spoil the occasion.
 
She hears an ancient voice
calling her home
on the lonely path of
reconciliation
but her feet are cut and bleeding,
her mouth parched by the red earth
out there in the cotton field
no puff blows her way
a musician plays the blues
on the sinews and strings
of her tightened guts.
 
She closes her eyes like sloes
and her lips like juicy strawberries
 
feels the burning glow in her cheeks
from the roaring Mississippi fire
still raging.

 

An Tine Bheo

An Tine Bheo

A craiceann mar éabann le hais
éadach geal cadáis
ar an leaba shingil ghlan
tá creasa sábhála
sa seomra sciúrtha
níl ponc as ord
 
tá gach rud chomh bán
 
díbríonn smeachadh méire boilgín
chíonn sí loinnir an tsolais
i mbior na snáthaide agus
i spéaclaí glé snasta
mar a millfeadh smidín dubh amháin
an ócáid.
 
Airíonn sí guth cianársa
á glaoch abhaile ar chosán
uaigneach an athmhuintiris
ach tá a cosa gearrtha, fuilteach
a béal tíortha ag an ithir rua
amuigh i ngort an chadáis
ní shéideann siolla ina treo
seinneann ceoltóir na gormacha
ar chaoláin
is féitheoga a hionathair.
 
Dúnann sí a súile mar áirní
is a beola mar shú talún méithe
 
braitheann luisne teasa ina gnúis
ó chaor thine Mississippi
atá fós gan múchadh.