Looking through the slats at South Africa

 

her story was South Africa, her movements unsteady

through the slats, I see the horizon rising and falling

the roll and pitch of the ship propelling us 

towards that land of Apartheid, an impossible past

where black or colored could only watch/live/endure the world

through slats of imprisonment only their horizon never shifted

not a voyage of discovery and privilege

from her a story of maps of the land extraction tourism crops

to us, the listeners, our stomachs churning in the roll and pitch

of exposure we could not want to know would not want to believe

the pitch and roll, the splash of the waves against the hull,

the propellor, the endless whir of history that still churns their lives 

butter cut by metal blades only to be spread as the other permits

to her, home, this magnificent place is complicated

I only see the horizon pitch and roll through the slats 

my stomach rises to my throat

Global Core: a Class

he said to write without thinking but 

it was so cold in the soft red plush chair in the Union, 

what Union, I asked Gabi one of the

two blonde girls, and the one in front with three sets of gold earrings reflecting squinting light into my half-closed eyes

the 3 am awakening from sleep disrupted by the sun which promised to erupt soon from the open sea, that same sea which has been calling to me all these years into this particular abyss 

one can be solitary but not alone, surrounded by others

and deeply lonely

she cried every day, but the other man, Floyd

rolled his head back with laughter at the idea, 

his eyes half closed not from fatigue but amusement

done following instructions my pencil follows the line

of her neck, the shape of her earrings 

I turn towards her 

she is waiting to speak 

 

Searching amongst the dead

 she was looking for her sunglasses 

my eyes blinded by solid gold, the dead man

on the cross, the little white man holding a small black baby, what was that in this land

the Senegalese man told me that Brazil is the most racist country in the world and it wasn’t long ago

he only left in 2024 

so many white men, they call them Popes, lining the hallway, and more downstairs in the crypt, the sharp bitterness of death lingered in the air

i tasted it on my tongue wondering at its enduring odor, the power of the papacy

she was sitting dejectedly in the pews without her sunglasses, only the reflection of gold in her eyes, the sorrow of it all

 

Making my own plans

Of course this would happen that I would find myself on my own 

the new arrival, the stranger

the others having formed their groups, made their plans

in spite of their insistence

shrill at times that everyone is so friendly

it is easy for them to say a welcoming word yet turn away 

the stranger can be invited by someone else

their friends secure in their pockets

I am the invisible guest, so I 

find a tour guide on the street, unlock a bike

and just go, tears streaming from my eyes

I say they are from the wind 

 

Meeting Mestre Curió in Salvador, Bahia

that sunny, hot afternoon

we timidly walked into the capoeira studio, towards the back, into the darkness

where a small man was seated at a table, his arms resting on his canes, 

a serious, neither welcoming nor unwelcoming presence, this was the Mestre

we were seeking, Mestre Curió, the man who was the Master, shrunken 

but commanding in presence, a smile only arriving after a 

T-shirt purchase, excited exchange about capoeira.

And later that night, when we returned, (yes, it was the same Bahian man, Clodes, with the 

big smile who collected me once again at the terminal) he motioned us 

to sit, sit over there, sit and watch him, now the commander of the stage,

in a well lit studio, barking orders at his students, some graceful and skilled, others 

stumbling as beginners do, but as we rose to depart, weaving between his students, 

he looked at us with disappointment that we would dare to leave before he showed us

how this was done, that the other mestre in the adjacent room did not

know how to do it the right way, and how could we leave and I hesitated

eventually slinking into the night 

his look turned to disdain, then dismissal.

one does not walk away from a Mestre. 

Open the gate and walk through: meeting the Orixás

I met him on the sidewalk when he opened the gate for me

the gate that lead us to a conversation, a plan, the day to meet the

Orixás floating peacefully on the lagoon

one dressed in lilic, another in gold, yet another white for peace,

one I had met before, Ogun, from Captains of the Sands, the book

Clodes had also read, the man with the Bahian smile 

who studies history for fun and opens our sleepy eyes to 

the spirits in this land, who live amongst us, amongst the 

traffic, and the drugs, the enchantment and the open seas, no

matter your religion, let us forget the Enneagram, the 

Meyers Briggs test, I'll look for the Orixás that has been 

guiding me, open my sleepy eyes to the power within, the 

enchantment and power, and find my own guiding colors,

what I am reaching for with my hands outstretched.  

 

I'm committed

 

The red duffle is packed, a color copy of my Brazil visa in hand

my husband embraces me three times, promising that I will have a wonderful time

I admit to tearing up inside wondering if this is what I want to be doing

and I walk away, into the gaping terminal, asking directions to the Delta counter

because it has moved, so much construction, chaos, and then navigating 

so many small problems that usually Stephen attends to, no TSA Pre on my ticket,

long lines, and then I read a poem about facing uncertainty, recognizing 

the restless at home (yes, while loving it), knowing it normal to be fearful 

but seeing that I am at that door to new discovery and it's important to walk

through that gaping terminal door, and face all the things I am afraid of.

I will gain courage in this, as I write this waiting at JFK for the 9.5 hour 

flight to São Paulo and I hear the others speaking Portuguese and I know 

that this is the right thing to do.

Here I go.