My roof is in flames

Too wild to make tame

By the bulk of a masculine frame
Of once acclaimed fame

Your only crime was nature’s mischief
With her ways so stiff
Your virtues steeper than a cliff
But the silence of your cradle

Silent compounds
Without small strong fingers
To pick the meat clean
Off remnant bones

And your fate is sealed
By the hands of your oppressors
Advocates for your eviction
Your comrades in womanhood

Communing voices from the hearth
Making tent at the foot of these walls
Deaf once to the dread of valoured foes
Now trembling under the weight
Of shrill imploring voices

Voices for the stocking of these lands
With fertile plains
And supple bosoms
To fill this roof
With the noise of it’s harvest.

Image: African Woman by Linda Bishop