I do not work as these ladies do.
My body is indolent.
I should lift things,
Sash things,
Cook.
Should have a child on my back.
A basket on my head.
When I leave my book
to make more coco, I wash
a dish in the sink, I waste
the soap.
Modesta catches me.
“I will do it,” she says.
“You are like your Mama, the American woman!
Everything, you want to do it, yourself”
She takes the soapy dish
from my hand.
She is laughing, but is it real?
Am I proud now, for washing one dish?
Modesta scrubs shirts
in a metal bowl for hours.
I tried it once.
Even Mama can’t bend like that
for long.
She’s right, about Mama.
Who works hard in an office to make
American money to send me to school
but would like to have her houseL
to herself.
I don’t like
any of this. I like the men
who clap for a girl
to bring palm wine. The men
who discuss
Books. I like them.
They carry nothing
on their heads.