Africa Verde

After your wedding, mother made you a green dress. Father gave you a gold necklace with a whisper filled with peppers: Nevertake this off. His dark hands on your shoulders his long journey to Portugal mother held onto his linen wrist for as long as she could.

You studied literature in Lisbon and fell in love with a man’s hair. He fell in love with your dark skin your doughy hips the guavas he dreamed of when he tasted your breasts.

He kissed you before he left for America and gave you his father’s silver crucifix the one his mother wouldn’t allow the undertaker to bury with him.

You waited for his return. You waited until your belly filled up with his moon. The apartment furnished with books crawls with roaches.

You hock your necklace and take the night train to Algeciras. Your feet have blisters. You smell of musk. Mother’s voice  hollow  old

Angola is so far away.