He’s my son, sama doom bu goor

Ameth Dieye, the same name as

half the men in Senegal,

but he is my special son, the one I

traveled across the ocean to see, planes,

buses, taxis, arriving at a small city, hot,

in the interior of Senegal.

18 and silent in French, sullen, but happy

amazed that I was there, this white American 

woman, the one who sent letters and a soccer ball.

Now, 20 and smiling, in Italy, among pigeons,

squatting in front of a famous church somewhere

he is my son, sama doom bu goor.