In a cotton shift and dusty bare feet,
straw basket counterbalanced
by the swaying of her ample hips,
Yancy comes to me in dreams,
bringing me elaborations of tamarind
and garnet pomegranate seeds,
teases me with fragrant mango promises,
sings in Creole, an invitation to her feast,
her smile moonwhite on this Caribbean night.
Then the hibiscus in her hair flowers into
bullet holes and I wake to wonder
if that was her, trampled to death,
in the Pulitzer prize winning photo.
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