Contact James McGonigal
The African Sun
I was in Africa again suddenly and frequently,
listening for the voice of water.
The sun looked ready to fry up
a thorn bush for breakfast.
Warthogs ran past us on clockwork legs.
An old man at a water hole miles out
crouched to rub ochre on his arms and hair.
The sun’s slow heartbeat
was muffled sometimes then clearly pounding
and suddenly gone.