Woman carrying basket of pineappleAtop her head, hair like an Arabesque carpetWoven with a million coarse black threads
The fruit motionless, still as heavy gold stonesWhile gentle hill hips sway like sine waves
Woman sitting on dusty street cornerSipping an ice cold, real-cane sugarNot-corn-syrup Mexican Coke
Little drops of dew collectingOn the soft fuzz of her upper lipDiamonds reflecting in noon-day sun
Woman with body lithe like velvet jaguarLounging like silk, Lioness on a stuffy mattress
In a room of one hundred Sahara sunsUnderneath an old ceiling fan that never stops
Woman with phosphorescent laugh piercingThe cacophony of reggae forever humming,Like rainbow scythes sculpting sugar cane
Woman with capable, callused handsCoursing with hot blood, cultural remembranceBathing black babies, preparing white riceIn mere moments, without thought, simply memory.
There are worlds of verse between womenUniverses of silent understanding also,
Please, woman, come, sit and let us partakeIn the sweet, sticky juices of unspoken fruit.