Dung huts inside a circle
of dead sticks.
“Dear,
I’m off on a safari in the Mara.
Don’t expect me tonight
or tomorrow.”
A Maasai, skin as
black as original night,
a man to three wives
and a stream of
Western women coming
into the bush.
A Maasai,
nurtured on milk,
meat, and blood,
with a long stick
to poke and prod
his precious cows.
A Maasai,
not a Lolita,
not a mille feuille,
a man wrapped only
in a thick red cloth.