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. 

The advantages of being (in a) single, with a guide and a pull rope

yeah, husbands can be nice but they tend to take control of the boat

you know, even the nicest ones, it's just part of, well, being a guy in this world

even with a wife, yes, he had the audacity to call me "the wife" which is said with 

....such disdain by guys, as if we are subhuman or something, or certainly not capable

of making our own decisions, even for such small matters as to what kayaks to rent

yeah, and i'd like a guide, too, for when the clouds scud across the sky and the wind picks up

and there is so much water and sky and we are far from port and this is no fun anymore.

yes, i'd like a single kayak and a guide, and the husband can come along if

he would like, grumbling a bit, i see him smiling as we cross the water, the wide

water that in places is like a mirror, the sky is literally water and sky 

and water and sky before a small ripple breaks a cloud into haze and the wind

picks up and it's a long way back to the small rocky beach where we launched which

is now covered in small wavelets as the tide has risen and the current is strong

so yes, I'd like to be towed back to shore across the strait and watch with 

some (small) amusement that my darling husband, the husband, is working so hard to

keep up with his petite wife, watching the pull cord, taut then slack, dipping, then 

rising towards the small pebbled shore.

 

As if I knew this pond

I knew this pond, the dense forest bordering

its edges, the distant cries and yelps of children

splashing into the water, shocked by the sudden cold on their skin

I knew

this pond, the dappled sparks of sunlight reaching

deep into my retina, the cries of the children echoing

resonating in my ear canals, gradually diminishing

as if I knew

this pond, but it wasn't, was it, it wasn't the one

where I arrived at dusk, barefoot, my hand in his,

the moon was bright that night, and the water lapped

at the shore, that pond

was here, the forest was the same, the cries of 

the children had simply been there earlier that morning

while I was still up changing bedsheets in their rooms

the ponds are all the same aren't they

the sunlight glimmering on the water, each ripple catching

a different beam, each beam bouncing back into the 

memories of a 

différent pond, but aren't they all the same

 

The injustice of being sick on vacation

the injustice

how dare I call it that, the injustice of being sick on vacation

when true injustice surrounds us, we have only to open the New York Times

to see injustice oozing from the mouths of our Supreme Court injustices

the injustice for the toddler shot at a Seattle fair just yesterday

oh, injustice you are everywhere and yet looking past the Kleenex box

towards the tranquil bay, does the seagull know injustice or

does the rain gently pattering outside on the railing

know injustice or does she wander freely with the clouds first

towards the east, over the hillsides and open water

does injustice only reside with us, who have strayed so far from

the natural world that we cannot even know what justice is,

or injustice

the injustice of being sick on vacation, the endless coughing and sneezing

the nose rubbed raw, would nature call these injustices or only the 

weary and spoiled traveler in her warm clothing, her white skin and well-educated

mind

she dare not call this an injustice.  

 

This is British Columbia

this is what i imagined 

a white yacht bobbing through channels

endless water, rain pattering 

bleached logs 

stacked onto rocky shores

peaceful

far from it all, what happened in Seattle

would not happen here

this is why we are here

 

the Dalaï Lama in Victoria

His gaze upon us at the restaurant calmed my sense

of not being fully here yet, in Victoria, the place not having 

captured me as I had expected,

jarred by the fencing on Paragon Street seeming to cage

in the homeless and their scattered trash and belongings

just blocks away from the Empress Hotel where one spends

one hundred dollars for high tea

isn't this the way it is in big cities, all of them

the Dalaï Lama gazes down upon all of us who land

somehow in this restaurant with an empty table

after having searched in vain for hours

he somehow knows that I needed this calming here

surrounded as he is by prayer flags and colorful wall

coverings, the serene voice of the Tibetan waitress

I can almost feel the cool breeze blowing off the Himalayas, I

can almost touch his cheek with my

fingertip