What can I do to help you?
Poison trickles into your womb
Your lungs are lined with dusty, brown soot
your breasts are wounded and stretched
Blood drips from your nipples after
Your calf is starved of its birthright
flowing rivers of menstruation
Have become the resting place of tin cans
Where are your magnificent, multicoloured locs?
Your scalp is covered in first degree burns and keloid scars?
You shudder, restrained in that cold, rusty, metal straight jacket.
Is your skin still golden, supple and warm beneath?
Mama, you are suffering, I hear your cries but what can I do to help you?
songs of reverence and gratitude of your generosity
Have been drowned out by machine engines.
Joyous dance would bring showers of glistening tears of love
Your toes ripped from the socket to make
Paper with faces drawn on
And they kill, drill, brutally tearing your flesh,
Is it your heart that they are looking for?