Now that you have left me, the elders dreams have ceased. The oracles are silent. In your absence, sleep is just sleep and when I sleep I pretend you are with me. With my eyes shut we are sitting hands coated sweet with cane juice, cowrie shells hang from our hair. Remember the way we rinsed our hands in the river, sinking our toes into its bank. Bare feet against trails made for our fathers by their ancients. On these trails we made our way back to mother where we watched the sun slip down the crocodile’s throat. As the sun’s beams dissipated in the belly of the beast, the moon swelled, waxing in want. Summer hissed her song with a chorus of grass snakes, lulling us with rhythms tapped out by the One who knows our name (Potts 1) .
"We are "grown up girls," and like the rest of the sex, with tongues, and a knowledge of their use, we may go across the water once more… [We], the ‘double-headed girl’ " (McCoy 13-14).
When absent, I am not the one you search for.
I reside in a room where those not sought for are
familiar, where singularity eases the lack fostered
by being forgotten, the discomfort of being overlooked.