Why was he
so cool, did the faces of his
wife & children steady
his voice? “I predict
the denouement of the riddle
of the Niger delta
will soon come.” Did
you feel dead grass quiver
& birds stop singing?
To cut the acid rage
& put some sugar back
on the lying tongue,
I’ll say my wife’s name
forever—the only song
I’m willing to beat
myself up a hill for,
to die with in my mouth.
Keeper of the Vigil
When the last song
was about to leave
dust in the mouth,
where termite-eaten
masks gazed down
in a broken repose, you
unearthed a language
ignited by horror
& joy. A cassava
seed trembled in a pellet
of fossilized goat dung.
The lifelines on my palms
mapped buried footprints
along forgotten paths
into Lagos. The past
& present balanced till
the future formed a
wishbone: Achebe,
you helped me steal
back myself. Although
sometimes the right hand
wrestles the left, you
showed me there’s a time
for plaintive reed flutes
& another for machetes.
I couldn’t help but see
the church & guardtower
on the same picturesque
hill. Umuada & chi
reclaimed my tongue
quick as palm wine
& kola nut, praisesongs
made of scar tissue.
—for Chinua Achebe
Nightbird
If she didn’t sing the day
here, a votive sky
wouldn’t be at the foot
of the trees. We’re in
Rome at Teatro Sistina
on Ella’s 40th birthday,
& she’s in a cutting contest
with all the one-night stands.
“St. Louis Blues” pushes through
flesh till Chick Webb’s here
beside her. A shadow
edges away from an eye,
& the clear bell of each note
echoes breath blown across
some mouth-hole of wood
& pumice. So many fingers
on the keys. She knows
not to ride the drums
too close, following the bass
down all the back alleys
of a subterranean heart.
The bird outside my window
mimics her, working songbooks
of Porter & Berlin into confetti
& gracenotes. Some tangled laugh
& cry, human & sparrow,
scat through honey locust
leaves, wounded by thorns.
Tenebrae
“May your spirit sleep in peace
One grain of corn can fill the silo.”
—the Samba of Tanzania
You try to beat loneliness
out of a drum,
but cries only spring
from your mouth.
Synapse & memory—
the day quivers like dancers
with bells on their feet,
weaving a path of songs
to bring you back,
to heal our future
with the old voices
we breathe. Sometimes
our hands hang like weights
anchoring us inside
ourselves. You can go
to Africa on a note
transfigured into a tribe
of silhouettes in a field
of
