soumbedione, dakar, senegal
suspended between time, and
a bigger place: the donk of djembes
tapped by fingers of rain,
and cauldrons of groundnut stew
left to simmer, yellowstone mudpots
of savory broth,
tended by half-lit women
wrinkled as the cheek of the moon.
intoxicated fisher-boys open their palms
to receive raindrops like beggared coins,
under a slate sky ribboned
with the exhalations of cook fires.
she left her rubber-tire sandals
on the beach, and she used
no high school french in her speech,
preferring an awkward patois
of eye contact
to greet each passing child, perhaps,
as the rain subsides, dreaming
of a sleep free from marauding mosquitoes,
and a chilly lager, ripe plantains,
and, perhaps, electricity,
as sand crabs become instinctive gladiators,
while palm trees as slender as matchsticks
try to towel off their coarse, beige bodies,
and i can see you better now, pausing
to teach the equator a lesson
about compassion, the graceful curves of pirogues
being pulled to formation
at the edge of the plage,
and she lifts the cup of bissap
to her amber lips
to savor its lukewarm bouquet,
now using high school french
in her speech:
"parlez vous, paludisme, pagne"
and you look so lovely in one, hugging
the perimeter of your bony waist,
fabric as delicate as hibiscus petals.
every cutrate stereo is muted,
and each footstep softened
to hear the muezzin's siren:
"Allaha akbar, Allahu akba
Ashadu an la Ilah ila Allah
Ashadu an Mohammmedan rasul Allah
Haya ala as-sala
Haya ala as-sala..."
we are home now,
sharing a hammock
suspended between time, and
a bigger place:
under a sky with pink curls
and purple braids,
a parking lot of pirogues whose curves
call forth bends in the river.
and we could sleep- if the moon would,
winking, as the fisher-boys grab their girls
and lure them into
the water's slow boil,
"xale bu bare."
and yet her womb, unlike the others,
is still not ready
and night truly comes, and
her barrier comes down
to be sated by fingertips
deliberate as gulls.
