The mother of invention
As she sat there unfulfilled
Under that fig tree
gratuitously cursed
For its barrenness
The mother stared at the well
The water reeked
And the pulley creaked
And the choice was not a good one
But then she remembered
The power in her cane
Then she remembered that
You can strike water
Like you can strike oil
Like you can strike gold
And guided by the drops
That plumped up her cells
Guided by a memory of jugs
Sitting on women’s heads
Guided by the waters that broke
Many years ago in her body
And those that flowed in her pleasure
She set off to re-invent the necessity of change.
Days of smoldering and incantations
Days of smoldering and incantations
While at the junction feet fail to lift
As you listen to the birds
Crying out their tweets
And lizards lay glued
To steaming stones
Days of thunder at a distance
And sunspots beckoning
A glowing motion
To continental drift
As the stuffed and the starving sit
Waiting for the drone to strike
And deliver
Fear in the soul.