Once in a Jungle Some Place South

There are cracks in my fingers
so deep, rivers ran there
in a past life.
My hands a delta
in South America.

Nameless, in another
jungle unknown to 
the white man's sword,
the unending 
prejudice of those,
pale-faced.

Walking with woman-thighs
and a swift trail
of hair swinging
below my shoulders.
Golden and glowing,
here with glossy
leaves and the
tittering of birds.

The city breathes its
sidewalks out,
the hot exhaling
 of the subway's
beastly pummeling
into the dark tunnels,
into the unknown.

Here is me,
golden-toned and
thunder-thighed
with one arm clutching
onto the strap
above my head
in the stomach of this
iron monster.

Plummeting farther
and further
against the jungle,
the roaring of the 
rivers in my hands
and my soul.

These rivers in my
palms,
the past of me,
flowing from the 
heart
of South America.