Rousseau’s Gypsy Speaks

Under muskmelon moon
and pewter sky, shepherd stars
alight in a night tasting of ice’s carbon,
frozen earth. Beyond slate smooth
mountains, planes of wasteland dust,
I lie.
My body: dark side of a bright moon.
My body: black oil against a silver night.
A lion preys or protects.
I lean close to music; music by which
I am fed despite my hunger,
alive despite the hunger of others,
at the mercy of cosmos not my own.
Would I trade my thousand colors,
my fireclay and hemp born clothes?
Trade dark melody for sunrise, a home?
I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t.