to a community, to a greater garden, she says.
But what if the garden is barren? I think, still captivated by the way she talks by the way she cares by the way
the moon
paints
her perfect
face.
I see you are staring again.
Portrait of a Woman
I am no Michelangelo I prefer music to mezza fresco this old tree is my canvas and I marvel at your body and soul
the masterpiece that is your pristine walk the heavenly way it colors
the world
from earth to sky.
I want to write your song, is what I want to say, but what comes out is: Can I get that mosquito net, please?
Conversation
You should rest, my friend. The roosters will be here soon.
And with them come eager children who want to meet the American boy.
I doubt if I will sleep with the big rats looming.
Oh, they are more afraid of you than you are of them.
You sure about that?
Positively. What you must keep your eye out for are the mountain lions, she says, laughing so loud even the crickets stop to listen.
Her smile
makes me forget that I am
seven thousand miles away from
the spider
that bit
and poisoned me.
I dig through my suitcase
for my malaria pills beneath the iPad
with 4245 pictures of Chapel I can no longer look at, guitar picks I no longer have use for, wallet with too much money yet never enough
to help me make sense of this life, Charlotte’s Web, which makes me think too much of the spider in my dreams, the clothes and pillow that smell like home, until I reach
Mom’s sealed letter that taunts me
that scares me
that I hold
while I drift off
to the unfamiliar hum and frantic patter of a Ghanaian night.
Text Conversation with Storm
4:45 am
I think I only slept for four hours.
Jet-lagged like crazy.
4:45 am
Plus the roosters started crowing like thirty minutes ago.
You finish the song?
4:45 am
Stop blowing up my phone, Blade. I’m busy.
Studying ciphers.
4:45 am
Ciphers? What are you, a rapper now?
4:46 am
Kabbalah. Don’t hate.
Madonna does it too, I think.
4:46 am
Whatever works. Express Yourself! LOL!
4:47 am
Storm, you still there?
I slept in a makeshift school last night.
4:47 am
It’s really just dirt and concrete. Next stop, hotel.
4:47 am
BLADE, what part of stop bothering me did
you not get!!!
4:47 am
The whole place is a work-in-progress, actually.
4:47 am
Boy, bye.
zZZZZZ
An hour later, when the
roosters take a break, I fall
back asleep and dream
of nothing.
This Morning
Last night, after missing the gentle strum of my guitar that always helps me find
my slumber and finally passing out from the boiling heat, and then
waking up at three am and thinking of all the things I’m going to say to my mother and then falling back asleep at six thirty am, I wake to the sound of chopping timber,
the crying of babies, the thumping of dozens of bare feet kicking a ball outside,
and a little girl with a whopping smile smacking her teeth and winking at me
over and
over again.
Foreign Language
As soon as I open
my eyes,
she runs away,
startled
and yelling
a phrase
I don’t understand.
A Village of Faces
I step outside and see
a large green field filled with twenty or thirty boys and girls running,
kicking
a worn-out ball between
two poles, trying to keep their balance.
A bell gongs and the athletes, along with other kids who’ve been milling around, scurry
in military rows like they’re about to be
inspected.
There must be a hundred
of them,
bright, little faces all lined up
in front of the school, smiling and silent.
What are they doing? I say to no one in particular.
I shrug my shoulders, turn to head back inside, gather my belongings to figure out the next part of my journey, when they all start chanting, GOOD MORNING, MR. BLADE.
I freeze.
To hear your name called in unison in a place
in a time
where you feel nameless and alone
is as stunning and shocking
as fireworks
on a Sunday
in December.
I turn back around, to find Joy
waving me over.
Welcome
HOW ARE YOU? the children say, in unison.
HELLO! How are you?
We are fine, how are you?
I’m good.
Very nice to meet you, sir, they say, again in unison.
The children have a song they’d like to sing you, says Joy, who’s now standing next to me in front of all one hundred children. Children, are you ready?
I am fully prepared for some traditional Ghanaian song, but what I get is: All the kids
doing The Whip and The Nae Nae in utter hilarity, and one of the athletes doing his best
Michael Jackson
impression,
moonwalk and all.
Stories
After about an hour
of dance and song and the kind of cheer
I haven’t had in a while, Joy introduces me to a few children who either want a hug
or my ears so they can tell me their stories their wishes and the names of their favorite American pop stars.
I wish
to find
my mother’s
reasons
for leaving
me alone
and unsure
that love
exists.
Texts to Storm
3:30 pm
Now that I can scratch
sleeping in an African village
off my bucket list
3:30 pm
I’m going to a hotel
for a shower and a
Coke. Call me when
3:30 pm
you wake up,
sleeping beauty.
Goodbye
The taxi drivers
are plentiful now,
still arguing
over who gets
to drive
the American
to the nearest hotel.
The little, winking girl
with a smile
as big
as this country
and apparently
a voice
as powerful
as mine
comes screaming
and crying,
with Joy
chasing
behind her.
Mighty Protector
The little girl
hugs me tight, still crying, and refuses to let go.
She thinks you are going to die, Joy says.
What? Why?
She says you were screaming in your sleep this morning.
Did I scare you with the mosquitoes? I’m sorry.
No, it wasn’t that. I must have been dreaming again.
Well, Sia does not want you to leave. I think she wants to protect you.
I see. That’s so cute. But please tell her I have to go, that I’m on a mission.
She is relentless. Plus, she sometimes stays with Auntie Lucy. They are very close.
Is she an orphan?
She is.
. . . .
Sia, he must go, Joy says to the girl, whose tears have paused since she reached my leg.
It’s okay, I’ll stay for a few extra hours, is what I really don’t want to say. But, I do.
Stay
Thank you for staying. You will be her world for the rest of the day.
It’s no problem. She’s a pretty cute kid.
We find
two folding chairs near the school.
The sky is draped in gray.
No rays of light, but the little girl dancing in front of us
to the music in her head.
When she finishes entertaining us she climbs into my lap and falls asleep.
Joy smiles. See, that’s all it takes.
Conversation