fading stabs of summer sun rest
on my kitchen table,
on a map unfolded.
i look down upon a thousand square miles
of west coast motherland,
fingers lost in the paper ocean just beyond
Dakar, daydreaming.
a party, outside somewhere, jumps to life.
Bahia rhythms flow, daydreams overflow,
into rhythms of creation
of a million colors dancing out to the horizon,
rhythms of ritual, movements clear as fables
old as dust.
Bahia cadence takes a Zydeco twist,
bounces into High Life symphony
suffused with grace.
i close my eyes and imagine claiming the
whole incognita planet -- a foot on half the
continent, fingers on the European shelf,
warm breath tracing an eastern path through
Asia Minor to India,
Australia to Polynesia,
sweeping up Kamchatka
down the Bering Strait
to Tierra del Fuego.
now at the door; the music, spread out like
summer smoke, is everywhere.
found the party at dusk, welcomed in,
everyone's bright colors merging
dark dancing drinking laughing
writhing floating in sound.
damn... just like New Orleans... parties
just like this, held out back of somebody's
post-plantation style house;
the food and the music and the women
and the food...
and having my palm read, my heartline
traced by Creole fingers.
left the party at dawn. could still see stars.
riding the watermelon line with
no clear destination
and could just as easily have been on
the streetcar named Desire
rumbling past diaspora landmarks,
the pure essence of the place
an envelope full of notes.
an envelope stuffed with anticipation,
regret, longing, understanding,
confusion;
for days on end this is you, the only
flesh and blood i cling to
the only warmth.
the pressure of patience is helping me
peel off the skin of new persona
(back to my old self), turning my
misogyny into (back into) compassion.
but this isn't about me.
i watch you sleep, with a space between us,
not like lovers.
the windows are open to weekend jangle,
the air is cool, still crisp.
each jolt and spasm draws me closer
but it's not enough;
i can't reach in through tortured sleep
find the shrapnel strewn about
melt it with breath and body heat
smooth and heal the damage
all the damage
with my bare hands.
i can only watch in silence
work near you in silence
pass you in hallways like a ship in the night,
wait for the sparkle behind your smile,
wait for another note to touch my hand
(your communion wafer to my tongue).
but this isn't about me;
it's about what you feel and hear inside,
the fragments that escape to find me in the dark,
and other things that may never be said outright.
i think i know.
i try to remember.