Song of the Andoumboulou: 60
The vote came in early. We ignored
it. No ballot-box auction for us...
Nub’s uninstructed dance’s bare
feet, music we took them for.
At a
loss with only bodies to fend with,
nonsonant waves kept coming,
sang without wind, saltless,
waterless, Nub’s inverted
run, Nub newly vented by horns
blown
elsewhere, bells full of insect
husks... Nonsonant scruff held
on to, sheerness... Nothingness
it seemed we grabbed at, gathered,
beginning to be unending it seemed.
We
were beginning to be lured again,
ready to be hectored, huthered, move
on, beginning to be uprooted again...
A peppered expanse the country we
crossed. Space doled out so stingily
we wept, love’s numb extremity
the outskirts of Nuh, name whose
elision
we embraced... A tale told many
times over, known before it reached
us, known before we knew, un-
backed alley of soul we wandered
into,
shadowbox romance it was called...
Come of late to creation’s outskirts,
rub’s new muse a republic of none, a
yet-to-be band the band we were...
We were Andoumboulou, dreamt
in-
habitants of “mu,” moored but
immersed, real but made up, so much
farther flung than we’d have thought...
They the would-be we lay on a bed
the size of Outlandish. Lip attesting
lip, tongue rummaging tongue,
took
between finger and thumb the hem
of her dress, flat bead of sweat, salted
cloth...
A hammer hit them each on the head.
Hammered heads rang and rang without
end... Called it creation, called it
their clime, close where there was otherwise
distance, mute endearment, recondite
embrace... So much farther, felt even
so,
mouth she remembered, home. His to hear
her tell it, hers were it his to say, whose
book was of lengthening limbs, hers of
the
unquenchable kiss... A tale told over and
over,
long since known by heart. Lay belly to
back, turned belly to belly, each the other’s
dreamt accompanist, music they made in
their sleep... Frayed hem the interstice,
time’s
moot rule. Time’s moot rule amended,
echoed
advance it was
also called
______________
A first unfallen church of what might've
been. Let run its course it would have
gone otherwise, time's ulterior bequest...
This they had a way of imagining,
this
they so wished it to be. Abstract he
at the back of her mind, she at the
back of his, each the other's Nub
constituent, ghost of an alternative
life...
They were we before we were, ancestral,
we
who'd never not be ill at ease. A vocation
for lack he'd have said, she'd have said
longing, a world, were they to speak, be-
tween... What wasn't, they'd have said,
went
away, would come back, first fanatic
church,
what would
be
•
They the would-be we talking talk of
election, devotees of Iemanjá. Glass-
green water they were in up to
their
shoulders, each the other's moored
recess... The way she said his name stayed
with him. More made of what wasn't
there than what was, whispered,
came
back again... Love called out from side-
walk to balcony, rooftop to galaxy,
mute...
More made of what was there than
was there, mouths vow-heavy at
bed's edge, lip-touch never to be done.
Never to get up again it seemed, lay
shaken,
endlessly commemorative advent,
dreamt
evanescent caress... A first unfallen
church it might have been. Let
run its course it would have gone
otherwise, time's ulterior bequest...
This they had a way of imagining,
this
they so wished it to be. Abstract he
at the back of her mind, she at the
back of his, each the other's Nub
constituent, ghost of an alternative
life...
They were we before we were, ancestral,
we
who'd never not be ill at ease. A vocation
for lack he'd have said, she'd have said
longing, a world, were they to speak, be-
tween... What wasn't, we'd have said,
went
away, would come back, first afflicted
church,
what would be... We were caught in a
dream whispering names we'd forget
waking up, caught waking up or in a
dream of waking up, moot sound riffling
our lips. Nub was a name, was
was
a name, a was a name, all moving
on... Names came after us, roused us in
our sleep, the ballot-box opening grinned
and grinned again, gone we'd have been
could
we have run... It wasn't we were stuck,
stood frozen, transfixed, Paralytic Dream #12...
It was waking known otherwise put running
out of reach, nonsonance's waterless waves held
us up, more than we could sense but
sensed
even so, nonsonance's
gaptooth
slur
•
Day late so all the old attunements gave
way, late but soon come even so... A
political trek we'd have said it was
albeit politics kept us at bay, nothing
wasn't
politics we'd say. Wanting our want to
be called otherwise, kept at bay though
we were, day late but all the old stories
echoed
yet again, old but even so soon come... A
mystic march they'd have said it was,
acknowledging politics kept us at
bay, everything was mystical
they'd say. Wanting our want to be
so
named, kept at bay as we were,
what
the matter was wasn't a question, no
ques-
tion what
it was
______________
Nub no longer stood but lay and we
lay with it, earth-sway cradling our
backs. What the matter was rocked
us, a way we had with dirt, awaiting
what
already might have been there... Dust...
Abducted future... Dearth Lake's dry
largesse... Dread Lakes' aliases, alibis,
Death
Lake also there... Where we were rubbed
earth in our faces, a feeling we had
for debris. Nub, no longer standing,
filled the air, an exact powder, fell
as
we ran thru it, earth-sway swaddling
our
feet
Copyright Credit: Nathaniel Mackey, “Song of the Andoumboulou: 60” from Splay Anthem. Copyright © 2002 by Nathaniel Mackey. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corporation.
Source: Splay Anthem (New Directions Publishing Corporation, 2006)