There is a woman in the
a woman slain on this spot where
the knife and glove of the murderer lay,
her remains discarded in rapture.
Her breasts are prominently
molded to the shape of the barren bristle cone
which lifts the body as though it was frozen
in the moment of death and ecstasy.
Her dress is petrified,
yet its lines flow
down, smoothing the wizened bark. Her heads,
for she has two gaping necks, are tidily
cut off and out of view.
When she died did the
tree eat her up?
Is this propaganda of 20th Century males
of this melieu? Violence as sex.
There are worms with
watching the scene, laughing atop fake rocks
under a cloudy moon.
painting by Chris Ofili MOMA,
San Francisco, July 12, 2001
if Amy's spirit could explode and run
from her caverned body, she might be
this black witch, the red sparks on elephant dung
holding her aloft, alive in this midst of paint and sequins,
African vines growing across her breasts
she'd be the exuberance
of the red jungle,
the orb of power at her throat, snake venom
swirling around her, transforming poison for life,
while she sings of crimson fire burning
deeply behind the vines
her spirits are released
from their dark shells,
dancing around her, these blue beads
are shining above her eyes, this green glitter
on her dress sending her into passion
her secrets wait under
let her be this fullness now, her body this wise,
possessing this ecstasy of light
for she is Queen of
of the jungle she can not suppress,
her starlight feet wise in the mud and grass