The Nigerian women smeared
a thick line of Texaco’s oil
under each eye, warrior warnings,
then crouched low and sprang
with the boulders of their bodies,
their stout ashy legs and mad wrists,
holding their paper banners with words
scratched out and respelled:
Give work to our husbands,
our brothers, our sons.
Give us light and water,
or pack now.
The pure singular force
of themselves.
Their glorious damnable throats.
You remember. Pack now.
Remember.