Wordshop Poem

by John Joseph Bowman

Our Basket

We all came from the same
basket, woven on the
African savannah—Namibia
wasn't it? And now
we kill over skin,
Gods, words, boundaries.
My mother is your
mother, my tongue
your way to speak,
my heart full of
your blood, and we
fill the same woven
basket at a new river
every morning. Here, drink.

Note: Diane Wang posted these poems collected at the Wordshop. If she has misread the handwriting, please send corrections to dw@think-ink.net.