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.  

Reality of No Dog sets in - the unlicked bowl

we asked ourselves if the new dishwasher will really be able to handle this

new reality, our new reality, the one where there is no dog running to lick the

bowls as soon as they hear the clink of the spoon against the bowl.

we wonder if we can handle this new reality where there is no warm 

fuzzy body cuddling up next to us as we watch the second episode in

yet another series that could educate us, instead of entertain, there is no 

warm breath on our pant leg, no more dog hair on my sweater, no sweet

greeting when I open the door after being away.  

the dishwasher is unprepared for this, as are we, our tears barely

drying before they fall again to the ground. 

 

From one suitcase to another

I did wear the flowered dress at the High School Reunion,   

the raincoat, the pants, the shorts, the extra underwear never unpacked

the socks, the flute wrapped in the waterproof bag all still resting in 

the suitcase, the one given to me by someone who had no right, now what is

ready to jump into the gaping red duffle, its mouth spread open like

a whale ready to voyage across the sea, as that is what I will be doing.

but what shall I bring on this voyage of unknowns, the days pass

and my uncertainty must come to an end.

I am leaving, in two days, I am leaving.