The Rasta man says I and I for we
(who celebrates the sunset as he davens to the beat).
He enterprises individually
(ganja loving spirit sunning lion won’t eat meat).
The Ethiopian colors crown his mane
(against the black the growth, the blood, the blazing of the sun).
The man is irie and he isn’t vain
(silken-muscled, fever-eyed, inviting everyone).

But Rasta woman isn’t to be found
upon the cliffs, athwart the western sky.
She’s hidden like the lady unicorn,
an unrecovered symbol gone to ground.
And when she utters (often) I and I
she means as well as self her own unborn.