the truth of words
lies buried in
my darkest Africa
after vultures . . .
the unshadowed earth
lies sun-scorched
my heart beats
to an ancient drum —
djembe talk
in nightmares
dank watering holes
of my past
fecund night —
a paleolithic venus
by ink-blot
distant thunder —
the unfolding crescendo
of our waiting
sunset shimmer . . .
baobab trees 
are paper dolls
the long shadow
of Mitochondrial Eve
coils in my dreams
savannah dusk —
baobab trees stride time
with up-raised arms
far away
handfuls of dust 
whisper of origins