My sister is an African nun <br />that sits below grass houses <br />and rocks babies <br />until the sun goes down. <br /> <br />She pounds grain <br />into a fine powder and <br />shoos the flies away <br />from the faces of children. <br />She never puts her head <br />down to rest. <br /> <br />My sister wraps the babies <br />tight within the confines <br />of cobalt swathing, <br />and occasionally she spits <br />out the poisons she <br />inhales. <br /> <br />The children surround <br />her as she sings in her <br />native tongue, her tales <br />of life would scare us <br />three times or more <br /> <br />The horrors of skulls <br />that are just beyond <br />her door, and the way <br />they made a rabbit <br />bleed would make you cry. <br /> <br />When my sister speaks <br />of death, she rocks the <br />babies slowly. She is <br />not frightened <br />when the sounds <br />of night are right <br />outside her door <br /> <br />While some others sleep <br />she is working, cleaning, <br />taking the children down <br />to the river, giving <br />bread to hungry mouths. <br /> <br />My sister's hands <br />fold for a simple prayer, <br />African mantra of the night, <br />never stopping, only knowing <br />that her babies need her.<br /><br />Louise Marie DelSanto<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-african-sister/
