these are heavy, rooted in the dark river.
Underneath, swimming among strong stems,
you know there are carp, orange and lucent.
You know rivers and the names for pain,
and when you touch me, my body
becomes transparent. You know
what the rhythms of my blood mean .
And as I watch your eyes skim the river,
I want you to know-whatever this room holds,
whatever I hold for you - these lilies survive,
and chicory and crickets fill the fields
of late summer, even in the city.
Michael Mott
MOZAMBIQUE
At sixteen I lost
what little virginity remained
from loving myself
to the hotel whore
of the Hotel Polama
She was fourteen
I didn't know
when she whispered
"Lento mais Lento"
the police chiefs
the casino owners
owned her
I have never paid
for a woman–
slow, go slowly-
