Cynthia is forty-three and single
She knows a single bracelet doesn't jingle
I'm short of sympathy for her
Days have crept up on her

Cynthia knows the night
She has built a bridge of excuses
On the wide hump of the night
Searching for the black goat at night

Cynthia knows, "breast wey done fall done fall"
But she has made a huge campfire
On the bank of her regrets
And she warms herself bedside it

Cynthia ignored the lizard on open ground
Now she's chasing it inside tall grasses
Her wardrobe is a rainbow of ashoebis
She has caught enough flowers to start a garden

Cynthia knows night hands are strong
In the region of the skin and value
She has read the handwriting on the wall
It says "A night is a day's child"

Cynthia prays as night shuts the door of suitors
Which water can wash off the dark hands of night?
A miracle husband is born on the lobe of dreams
Maybe the shield of fasting will survive the fangs of the night