Sometimes We Don't Notice That

Your Culture Has Become Sophisticated, Like A Computer, Or A Drug That You Take For A Headache. You Can Use It, But You Cannot Explain How It Works. Certainly Not To Girls Who Stack Up Their Firewood Against The Side Of The House.

In A Few Breaths' Time I Will Speak Some Sad Words To You. But You Must Hear Them The Same Way We Have Agreed To See Scars Now. Sad Words Are Just Another Beauty.

This Is The Forked Tongue Of Grief Again. It Whispers In One Ear: Return To What You Once Loved Best, And In The Other Ear It Whispers, Move On.

I Think My Ideal Man Would Speak Many Languages. He Would Speak Ibo And Yoruba And English And French And All Of The Others. He Could Speak With Any Person, Even The Soldiers, And If There Was Violence In Their Heart He Could Change It. He Would Not Have To Fight, Do You See? Maybe He Would Not Be Very Handsome, But He Would Be Beautiful When He Spoke. He Would Be Very Kind, Even If You Burned His Food Because You Were Laughing And Talking With Your Girlfriends Instead Of Watching The Cooking. He Would Just Say, 'ah, Never Mind'.

That Is The Trouble With Happiness-all Of It Is Built On Top Of Something That Men Want.