David Kerr


In this country of seeds where shrubs flick burrs moist-clinging to shirt and ankles; where guavas pomegranates grenadillas squirt juice on the palate and garrulous crones warn of excess seeds which lodged in the belly sprout trees thorns and flamboyant fruit; where village mothers who with regular pestle splats pulverize nuts and daily maize, lampoon in panting throaty songs their too mean, too horny or recalcitrant men, seed cycle's music offers little relief; hardships of belly and womb are also percussive.



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