i was hoping that it was the wind again
pretending to be an old senile actor trying to
carry a message
a warning
between forgotten lines
wanting to be born again
but giving up and dying
in the form of this man
whose features i had often given
to the night
whose voice i had often given
to the darkness
who was at my door…at my door.
he rang the bell as if all of his blood
had surged into the one hand, the one finger
like the one that pokes our chests or our foreheads
after each utterance of why
after each scream of why
like the one that belongs to grandmama, to granddaddy
or their grandchildren who don’t know any better
the finger that seems to always separate the blood
into explanation
blood that was about to be set free
flowing like declared independence
after alley-crack dialogue
filling lies where rock and sand have failed
no, the wind’s freedom is not the same.
maybe his blood was Ashanti…as mine became Dogon…
there were shadows standing along the drawn-up boundary
hearts beating like hands against a hollow log
he was a wanderer seeking refuge from the shadows
like an unplanted seed needing one last embrace from the sun
not caring to take root beneath infertile rhetoric.
he was a stranger
seeking refuge in a vestibule…in a village
Senufo…Bateke…no…yes…no…we were both african
but he could be conquered
his hand fumbling through the boot-legged images
that could bring death from the shadows
that could conceal death
but he could be conquered.
hearts beating like hands against a hollow log
a shared dialect heard above the babble
of fading shadows
…Ibibio…Yoruba…no…we were both african
i could feel it in the wind.
The Muse Minefield 
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