Sunday, April 22, 2012

The Interview

She was sitting on a wooden stool
Saddle-seated just above the ground
A thin stream split the path that led to her
The waste of the day seeping by

We struggled though our appointed conversation
I was there to record her story
Of the disease that had plagued her since maidenhood
The interpreter inadequate to bridge the language divide

But the violation of shame met me through her eyes not her words
And then there was no language
No African woman on a three-legged stool
No European man sent by doctors and priests to wrench her witness from her

There were only her eyes and mine
I held my tears at bay
But hers came
And later mine came

She has rarely left me since
Those eyes
Their plea
The solitary torment