Oyo

The Fishwife The fishwife in her wooden market stallTucks in a franc into her black brassiere,Smiles as she hands over the fish. She is tallHer teeth glisten whiter than the sassier Neighbour’s, whiter than any woman’s, so whiteI wondered if God knew she’d make itInto a magnet for custom and light.I did not ask her name, I wouldn’t pit My halting French against her effortless riverOf Bambara and market French….