Collecting Water​


by Lisa Oyanna​


When the summer comes ​
we hide on down​
in the midday heat and ​
watch the land shrink​
as the devils rise to play and blur​
the horizon. But we have to drink.​
A woman walks there​
as the land bakes.​
Her skin is black​
her Iro and Gele are deep red,​
the water jug, held with one hand​
upon its rim, atop her head.​
She sways along the path,​
moving to the heat waves.​
In her vessel is the water​
for her children,​
from the well five miles back.​
She's one of many mothers​
collecting water every morning.​