By Atok Dan
With ivory in her mouth
spaced by
a gap that glitters like fresh asphalt on the unused highway
her
elegant giraffe like-neck that was hardly undifferentiated,
her from
flamingos tapping fishes along the Nile,
and a body
molded with shiny clay from the river,
her spongy
hip remains an imaginative mattress
I feel
no more to narrating her beauty,
never has
she ever gone for a world beauty contest,
she suffers
a great silence,
envied
by many for a beauty that never earns her a coin
A crush
on her earned me unstoppable hallucinations,
hardly can these days and nightmares give me a
break,
neither do
I break a break from picturing none existing images,
of a
village mirror,
a crush
on a village that gives birth to the world's most perfected body,
like
what I saw in a village that remains indelible in my mental recorder
when I glance, I still wonder of,
ingredients
nature had assembled into her,
I found
her nowhere but in the village that nursed her
into a jeweler
on the world stock exchange
her
beauty never fluctuates like the rate of the American dollar,
determinable
only by the raise and fall of oil
A fixed glance
on her waist loosen tears from trachoma-free eyes,
and a
swagger of an arm voluntarily rests an eye into its orbit,
she is
from that village that nursed her
a crush
or hatred, but dotted love
All I
could remember is I admired her
whether
fed on fertilizer or an organic,
she
still smiles milk in her mouth,
she
hails from a cattle camp,
product
of a white liquid,
of a cow
milk
My crush
on the stream of a village skeleton,
sets an inextinguishable
fire of love,
if I try
to bow off seeing her image,
she
still towers in the valley,
when I
raise my eyes to measure differential depth,
already
had she glows the camp with radiation of beauty
with shiny
black African melanin
When I
again back off completely from her image,
I’m
tired of admiration
yet she
still in her hide dress,
is no
more but an addition to what had slipped off my eyes,
I met
her first in the great valley of Atuet-nyiel,
three miles
down to Da’Chuek village of Piom-ahol,
barefooted
not far away from Panyagor
She
again whirlwinds down in the cattle camp of Murle
that is
never further from Kong-kong river in Pibor,
and again
raising my eyes,
I saw
her adorned in house ornaments,
down in the flat
basin of Pakudhuom heading to Akot of Unity state,
she is already
a resident of my birth village
Had nature bungled ideas,
only
will you realize seeing her dressed in skin hide,
yet
magnificently admirable in the eyes of seers,
she only
travels in the mountains,
my crush
on a village beauty explores no idea,
and my
brain remains in jail of love
I had a
crush on a village girl
