Daphne Schiller
Betrothal
My son is flying
Into the red breath of Africa
To claim his bride.
He’ll offer two bulls
To the village elders,
Bright lengths of cloth
To the major aunts.
The bride’s mother
Has sent us gifts—
A turquoise sleeping-mat,
A blue and white bowl
Woven by the Women’s Co-operative,
Some indigo pottery painted
With bare-foot herdsmen.
We already have
The ostrich egg, gestating the world,
A stool carved from one piece of wood,
A calabash dyed with red ochre.
On our walls, a fly-whisk,
A spirit mask, a moon-shaped
Fetish object.
In the loft, the spears are packed away
Next to the mouldering leopard-skin
And the quiver of poisoned arrows.
Slowly the house is entering the Dark Continent.
Twilight moths batter the table lamps,
Outside, lions prowl
And a ruby wind bears desert dust.
Page(s) 38
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