| In Bloemfontein... Alan Ross... |
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Woman to man, they lie, He not quite white As she, nor she So black as he. |
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Save where her stomach curves his flesh and hers, Commingling, match. Eyes catch. |
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That dare not meet Beyond the night, Through their alternate Thighs, locked tight, |
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Defy you to discriminate Between his skin and hers. To him Pass Laws Apply; she knows no night. |
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But that pale strip her loins Keep from the sun marks her, his tiger-woman, White, while he's all one. |
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That strip convicts, He covers With his hand the site Of crime. Soon shutters, Stripping him with light |
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Peel color from his hips- She his woman, he Her man, simply human Like the heart beneath her lips. |
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A matter of degree Elsewhere, no more; But here, in Bloemfontein, Keep closed the door. |
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