Red dust
Cannot go south, I am told,
or I will fall prey to the diseases, the choleras,
the mosquitoed dengues, the leeches,
the embedded dangers
the pickpocket
the schizophrenic madnesses,
of my families from the south.
And I ask of you, what then?
If I stay in the north?
Where my words barely touch the edges of my meanings?
When will I win this daily raffle?
Lemmings and lemmings to the seas
of my changes?
When will the rain lullabye me?
When will the dirt, this dust, once again
red orange
bring me home?
Erica Weick
many years ago
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