The Oranges in Uganda

Walking together, Death and I

are shopping for emicungwa

at night, in the market.

Each careful pyramid of fruit

is stacked on cardboard, illuminated

by candles. Death’s feet are bare

and covered with dirt

from the road.

We talk of small things.

How the mosque and the half moon

stand sentinel

against the bloody sky. That mangoes

will be in season soon.

I tell him I know why

people make love when they

come home from a funeral. Why the pull

of the body echoes the tides,

eyes wide as graves. The way the stamens

of a passion flower spin up,

defy their stem.

Thinking all the while,

fumbling with the prickly shapes of jackfruit

and their sticky sap. Yesu,

the death pulse ringing louder

than talking drums, viral in the blood.

Cloaked in barkcloth, Death

raises his ancestral spear, singing mouth full

of ulcers and steel. He has known the Tombs

of Kasubi,

Home of Kings.

The street children are out

stealing watches again.

There are no stars to behold.

Nkooye, Death says. I am tired.

He rises like a swallow

from the depth of grasses,

leaving a rip no word can cover.