Walking along Harvard Square

We met at a junction,

                                 from your face I could see

the drummers skinning a goat,

                                   their tender hands holding the fur,

the gentle pull of skin from flesh

                                 creating music that would bless a drum,

soft sounds escaping their throats

                                            as prayers for the dead.

I do not know if you saw me,

                                  I could hear the talking drum

in your footfalls.

                        The pom-poms peeking out of your bag,

perhaps a gift to your daughter, reminded me

                                                    of raffia roofs

    from a village founded along a creek.

    You, descendant of ritual drums and trumpets,

                                    are African as I could ever be,

and as American as I could never be.

There was something in your footsteps,

                                in the song you whistled as you walked

that said you knew the lives of all there is.

                               In Jamaica Plain you would be home

on a sofa

in the presence of Doondari & the Court of Heaven.

                                You who whistled a thousand sparrows,

you knew your place

in the songs of praise, in the rituals of hills.

As you stepped into a car, I whistled

                                                 the song that passed from your being,

you stopped & saw me

                                    under a streetlamp

as what stood on the shore.

                                            I tried to speak as you walked toward me,

   but you held my hand.

Now that we both know of each other,

                                           what are we going to do?