She was one minute past midnight
Dark
A Warm consuming darkness
Unknown tribal marks
Half-healed
Hands marred
By too many knuckle hits
By granny’s brush
Like all little girls
Canerow tragedies
Feet
Big and broad
Danced happily and bare
In the torrent
Of rainy season
Rain worshipper was she
Hair forever parted in two
Engrained discipline
Of unruly locs
By Mama’s calloused
Colonized hands
Body
Skinny and smooth
An awkward depiction of beauty
Not yet recognized now
But maybe then
She has claimed herself
Bamboo Gyal
Young fresh
Sap at the root
Never a conformer
For any lies or half-truths
Told about her people
She is the first reluctant warrior
She will bend
But never break…….