A Question of Essence

In Arlesheim
the solstice smelled like hair pomade
the moon
caught between warm and forever
I dream of Alice Walker
her tears on my shoulder
but I cannot see her face
dark women painted clay pale
dash in and out of laughter
clay in their eyes in their ears
around their noses
their tongues bedded down in clay
some are building shelters
against the past
low huts of seductive pictures
other beautiful women
Is Your Hair Still Political?
tell me
when it starts to burn…