Props

Boubou Achoo

Thistle and dust blow
through my boubou,
agents of sneeze who
obey the wind.
Peekaboo fabric rolls
over my ankles and knees
showing a quixote cat
and mouse game
of wind and flesh, of
hide and seek.
Next to this drying tree
I'm sitting and breathing
the rubbing hairs of lions,
and hyena dried spit.
The light is slipping in an African
shift change. The night stalks
like the death of youth.
It sees me and approaches
slowly, smelling me
and fighting back the urge.