Palm Wine Tapper

It is no woman’s job,
though no one ever said it was.
You learn it from your father.

— One cutter per tree,
interlock yourself with the prey
by a rope, a gourd
hitched on the hips.

Opposing the caste,
he swarmed the long-necked beauty
right up to its crown,
stepping on the scars,
to pose at the peak,
where working men could see him
cutting.

The incubus of a tree.
He did not fear the eyes,
nor the void life refused to fill,
but leaned against the nothingness,
trusting the rope,
the ring of union.

— Mash the bunched fruits for oil.
Knife the trunk’s neck for sap.
The palm wine tapped,
tangy and breast-milk-like.

The forest would close,
farmers crossed a neighbourhood,
hunters in packs, clowning fishermen.

The tapper crossed alone.
Silent.
He sees all there is to know
up there.
A young girl watching
the men of the village,
I wanted to marry a palm tapper’s son.