Zaire

by Charlie Baylis


What could I tell of the taste of the rain?

It was blue as she stroked the old republic

Cutting her trinity of blackberry heads

Open with a machete blade, open here

The blow and flow of her black-red juices

Evacuated bodies, junk to disappear

Dead rhythms haunting bones on the rack

Roads of unwashed ebony, scorched, seared

The merciless howl of a tree splitting gale

What could I tell of the taste of a tear?

White fingers that taint my milk-bottle

White my dear, I’ve seen its name smear

And the copper bell splinter in her hands

So what other stories might I tell?

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