we kept revisiting the page with the tiger, his paw caught in a wicked trap,
the children releasing him back to the wild, but why, she asks.
The Emperor, Haille Silassie, threw pennies to the peasants, while the Rastas
worshiped him as their Messiah, a man who lived thousands of miles away,
I asked, why, we both asked why as we turned the pages of our respective books.
These days, we ask why, when our eyes are wide open, and our ears can hear
she is wrapped up warm in her handmade nightgown, of the fuzzy rainbow fabric
I unwound from a cardboard bolt in the fabric store by my house.
I was surprised to learn that her father had handsewn her nightgown, and I admired
the uniform stitches, the precisely cut arm holes, and I wondered what had inspired
him to do this loving task, one so often done by a woman.
we shall always be asking why.
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