The Evil Present Poem by Martins Akhoeneto

Now three calabashes broken, three odd losses,
none left to calm her sigh.
These three odd years sail away
over tides, over cataracts and sea hyacinths.
She curses the finger that fed her tears,
like a wretched and burgled tenant,
indebted to a truck-load of rent.

A decade before,
she would stand akimbo and promise,
offer those dangling, endowed breasts
to the waters of purulent beasts,
chanting a commanding chant,
full of force to open heaven's gate,
plead on behalf of her expectant husband—
a sweet-sorrowful plea—
beside a running brook, devoid of soul.

Wailing and wailing she has
through these 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.