Nothing to See Here

I had to get this book out of my house,

yes, the best seller, NYT amazing book, they told me so.

yes, the book that was on the Staff Picks at NoBo library

that I grabbed because it was about children that spontaneously combust

and although the ones in Baltimore did not literally start on fire, smothering

them to stop the screaming did occasionally occur to me, but please never tell them.

the library was closed but the door to automatic conveyer belt obediently opened

soothing my beating heart and the book slide silently out of sight and mind

I have too much on my mind as it is

 

Where the wealthy live

 

there is no connection here

just to the left are the big houses, mansions really, part of a big city

Baltimore

I was talking to a friend when he said he couldn't hear me anymore, here in

Baltimore

where just to the left, at that moment, was a three story yellow duplex

but there was no sound and I saw on my phone that he had disappeared 

we did not hear each other anymore, here in

Baltimore

this grand city with sky scrapers and busy streets, the hustle of people going 

about their business, some panhandling, others striding purposefully, here in 

Baltimore

a few miles away there is no connection, the line goes dead, even the 

path is quiet, my footsteps swallowed in the deep mulch along the path, here in 

Baltimore.  

 

The Gardener

he was building the garden when i last visited

piles of lumber,  the garden beds outlined in chalk and 

taut lines of string, the cement mixer off to the side for

the required garden shed

he needs it all to be properly set out 

properly done, only then will the seeds know that

it is time, the seriousness of it all, the expectations of

success, this is how it is done

and so

and so, a couple years later, or was it 18 months or

something like that i came back to this place, to his 

garden, not hers, no, his garden, his masterpiece, and the

seeds knew to germinate, and the plants to push up through

well composted soils, towards the sun, protected from

all manners of hopping and jumping beasts, from the aerial

assaults of small insects, the slimy advances of the other

living creatures who seek to feast at a table of such

bounty, just as i arrived as well to gobble down sweet

cherry tomatoes, the last of the season after such a summer

of heat and blazing sun.

what a lovely moment to snap a photo of him

smiling in front of towering pepper plants loaded

with the fruits of gardening, always a

labor of love. 

 

The artist

 

although I wasn't sure about how a woman's stomach could hold a cello

it was clear that this man knew how to do it, knew her soul better than she did

her need to be a cello but also be a mother, daughter and friend

and I wondered how they have met

this cello woman, his muse and maybe they met in a bar a few decades ago

a whiskey in his left hand, his right turning a pencil around in his fingers

pondering what was next in this life that is always

a mystery, isn't it, where women may want to be cellos and men

whales that swallow fishes while seeking truths somewhere else than

this crazy world where a yellow fish may appear blue to the 

untrained eye.  

Ibou, Momar, Oumar - and me

i had not known them. the three in the gallery sitting next to me that afternoon

one of them had turned to me in the darkness of the theatre, Ibou, yes,

after the film, the film about

three innocent black men imprisoned for 30 years

two of these freed men now having just stood on the stage, how generous

of him, Ibou, to greet me after watching that 

onslaught of injustice by 

the white man, yes, the white man.

and then Momar 

leaning against the candy counter in the theatre lobby, waiting to go and

i hadn't wanted to walk in the sun through the heat 

because I didn't know, I actually didn't know 

that i could be so stunned by beauty, what Ibou and Momar brought

to show me from across the sea, across the country

the paintings of birds and women, the vibrancy of life jumping from 

the canvases, stunning the eye, the heart of

West Africa

and then Oumar

I didn't know, I actually didn't know that

thousands, millions across the sea danced and sang Jappo 

Namenala yes, I miss you, too, yet you are here, too

for the man shouting out from his car window, jubilant in recognition 

as we crossed the intersection in the suffocating heat

this is celebrity, the joy of recognition

here in Aurora, in this place, 

I had not known them and they are so quickly gone

but they are still here

I feel their hearts beating

 

The exquisite blood draw

 

i recognized him

yes, this man that came from other shores, i recognized

the boots and his light colored eyes that danced, and 

i was glad.

because i already knew him

this man that would not miss a the vein, not like the 

one who claimed that my body did not give blood, 

no reason to worry, i knew that this man

was the one who would smile and move so gracefully

that my eyes would not even follow his every move

only the "a tiny prick" alerted me that the 

draw had begun, over before i could 

brace myself for the pain, no time for anxiety

or fear, Moe is his name, no, Mohammed,

the real name, the name of prophets and 

wise men.  

he is one of them.