FOUR POEMS
Temporal
itting in the cafe of a local bookstore, I listen to the coffeecolored woman lull her child to sleep. A soothing tongue passes through the gap in her teeth and I can’t help but wonder if this were the song my ancestress sang to give me breath. Giving in to my curiosity, I turn and ask if she is from West Africa. Her smile replies,. She asks me if I have ever been home. I think. , I reply. She smiles again and I begin to envision her mapping West Africa on my face with her eyes. Traveling down the Ivory Coast of my cheek bones, she settles on the Congo of my smile. Looking north, she calls my hair Senegal and fits all of Sierra Leone on my forehead. She names my nose Nigeria. Gazing into my eyes, she says Ghana lives there. She’s sure of it. She smells of scent leaf and sunflower. I’m convinced. Swinging my legs to and fro in childish bliss, I imagine my creaky knees as the rickety-boned floor of her childhood home—adorned with outstretched limbs and brown skin, endless as the bark of the iroko tree overhanging the backyard. Indoors, my kinfolk sing praises to Olokun and count their blessings in scars and missing offspring as long-forgotten children tap at their temples. Out the window, I gaze at the homely soil and wonder,
