Rooted in darkness, nourished
by
dreams and incantations,
the yam woman sleeps alone
swollen
in the cool earth
an
ugly red-brown lump
malleable
as clay.
Yet remember:
her
core is orange and sweet and creamy
the
blemishes on her skin are all eyes
and
lifted from that womb, she will become
resilient, assume the grace
of
white filaments swirling in the glass
as
the waters ebb and flow
and
the bright air opens to her
poems like green translucent
valentines
cascading
down the windowsill
rising
to distant fire.
(written by author: Elizabeth Friedmann)
(written by author: Elizabeth Friedmann)
