Source
Her scars are beauty
Meandering across place and time
Callused, lacerated, are my hero’s hands
A stick in your left. A cutlass in your right.
My hero has no statue. She has no plaque. No prize
I write these lines for her. Who. Now. Is in fleshless form.
Your cutlass echoes... Jesus… your garb as lily-white as his skin.
Your burdens, as heavy as his.
My hero carries sugarcane on her head.
Home. In the dimness of dusk, where young ones wait
A callused, lacerated palm caresses each face
After she has set her stick and cutlass down.
