The men are out again; I am with them,
beneath the open arms of the Dogonyaro,
hiding from the sky’s burning gaze.
Their mouths are like busy highways.
If you ask me, I’ll say gossiping has no gender.
I follow their eyes opening holes in every passerby—
holes numerous, depending on who is passing.
I pity this girl walking by the most,
swaying like the arms of the tree above us.
Her breasts are lost in the music
of her feet, trying to free themselves
from the holdback of her top,
dangling like a curtain impregnated
by wind. I hear the men’s thoughts,
as audible as words, and think:
hypocrisy is condemning what you desire
but can’t have. There’s truth in hunger—
untended, it makes a man angry.
My advice would be that they go home to their wives.
I bet the girl feels her blood soaking
into her clothes, feels the bite of pain
and lust. That must be why she quickens
her pace. I know I would, if I felt
nomadic eyes digging into me. I watch,
waiting for one man to remember
he has a home, and break from the rest
like a crumb off a bread. But unless the
sun dies and the sky sings a dirge, these men
will call this Dogonyaro home.
