Horns by Kwame Dawes

Horns

In every crowd, there is the one

with horns, casually moving through

the bodies as if this is the living

room of a creature with horns,

a long cloak and the song of tongues

on the lips of the body. To see

the horns, one’s heart rate must

reach one hundred and seventy

five beats per minute, at a rate

faster than the blink of an eye,

for the body with horns lives

in the space between the blink

and light — slow down the blink

and somewhere in the white space

between sight and sightlessness

is twilight, and in that place,

that gap, the stop-time, the horn-

headed creatures appear,

spinning, dancing, strolling

through the crowd; and in the

fever of revelation, you will

understand why the shaman

is filled with the hubris

of creation, why the healer

forgets herself and feels like

angels about to take flight.

My head throbs under

the mosquito mesh, the drums

do not stop through the night,

the one with horns feeds

me sour porridge and nuts

and sways, Welcome, welcome.