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        No one sells her how, shows what and then
      another child into the world howls . tossing nipple
      bottle spoon : how over the bowl her sunflower
      bearing hips one day lose faith . one life!
      rushes hard to take.

      First names from warriors past believers tag
      long after pain . issues wedged and held on
      track risks to guard rails, the years of piling
      prayer.
                                     Lips stretched, some hoof
      still rears you come! the hells to catch for heavens
      away! Yes lords, fear chills disposed, swab night 
      crack flashings bless . song making sense.
                                                 
                                                           Until bone
      dry, our Crabwood creek say, who in return sends
      rain barrels back?  mooring cords cut, stream lines
      that measure salt drip left . the balance
                                                        dogbagged . done
      with earth wall knots, shell trails; donors there
      trying still.
                                                    – W.W.

 

      

      

       

 

 

       QAT

      In listening to anyone, not only
    To Madame, Qat feels almost duty-bound to mistrust
      What her teacher-mother in Cameroon used
      To call verbiage (herself verbose, she mocked
      La descente indécente of other women).

      It's not because Madame’s a sewer-spout but
      L’espèce de paroles qu’elle emploie makes Qat feel
      Queasy as though there is a force pressing up
    Inside her chest and pushing against her breasts pressed down
      By the sacrée brassière she wears étriquée
      To keep her nénés looking smaller, firmer ‒
      While Madame’s sacré caquet makes them feel tight.

       (from “Charon’s Anchors” by Brian Chan, 2018)