The Evil Present Poem by Martins Akhoeneto

Now three calabash broken, three odd loss
None left to calm her sigh…
These three odd years, sail away
Over tides, over cataracts and sea hyacinths
Curses the finger that fed her tears
Like a wretched and burgled tenant
Indebted to a truck-load of rent.


In a decade from now,
She would stack akimbo and promise
Offer those dangling endowed breast
To the waters of purulent beasts
Chant, commanding chant
Full of force to open heaven’s gate
Plead on behalf her expectant husband
Plead, sweet-sorrowful plea
Beside a running brook, devoid of soul.


Wailing and wailing she has
In this recent years of two
Rain-drenched in sob
Sobbing a cold-footed child
Wailing, real yelling she has
Beside the doorpost of an African homestead
Every dawn of a berennial year.