Something in the wattle trees
outside the squatters' hut
in what was then Rhodesia
shimmered: paradise

flycatchers' brilliant orange tails.
Inside, bellies
like balloons of stone, and one
Ndebele woman

with her hands out, palms up.
The child of air you cradled
twirled your hair round and round
a bone of finger, crying without sound

when you tried to shift her gently
from one hip to the other.