My father was an African

When he died the tall women
came down from the hills and walked
past his body, throwing roots
and spices and
perfumes of the forest
across the great divide.
They laughed about his long life
and cried about the unhappiness
of his felt times, his moments of silence.
Then they swept the cottage of his body clean
and carted water to the river
as the buffalo, gibbons and jungle leopards turned
their heads, in one movement, toward the setting sun.