writing to my penpal, Mira

I'd never written a postcard from Senegal, 

the streets too dauntingly dusty and crowded,

I'd never seen a post office. 

no one had been worth the effort

until now.

Darling Mira, I went to a city far away

from Dakar, I searched for La Poste, across

from the hotel from which brave men flew across

large distances to deliver the mail.

hallways full of photos and letters sent

and received, letters telling of love and absence,

describing the unimaginable in this land, here,

in Africa, where pirogues still roam through narrow mangrove

passageways, 

on a cool January morning, the eyes of a hippo rise up

above the water, in May, the pelicans fly overhead in 

impossible spirals digesting many pounds of fish.

From this land, I sent this card, to a little four year old

girl named Mira, the one who wears sparkling 

Princess dresses, and dances towards the waves,

they may be the same ones that dance outside

my door.