My woman is no light skin
She doesn’t fall into the modern term for ‘beauty’
She is not the fair complexioned woman
Writers spent time painting with flowery adjectives
But when all the noises have been made
And cane of reality begins to flog men
She is the kind of woman they long for in their forlorn.
My woman doesn’t slap the world with her womanhood
She knows her beauties is not in ladies’ book of revelation
I am as wild as other men
She tames me with the things in her head
I run home after work like a hungry schoolboy
To be comforted by her.
(A rewrite of my poem titled MY WOMAN)