her creature pain
her pretty-little-baby
pain
FATHERING #1
Baay, Someplace in the Gambia, c. 1753
After the required time,
the seclusion to fool scream-faced
souls: the naming ceremony.
People arrive with gifts
for the close-eyed baby with no sense,
separate into men and women.
They do not count their children
like bad-lucked livestock—
they eat. They talk.
Chew kola.
Pray at the required
times. Then: eat.
Still: eat.
The baby unaware of her meaning.
In years, her father’s expectation:
her body hailing a good
bride price, that she might
sing forth sons—
if she prays as well.
At any rate, boys clearly hear
the loudest greeting.
Births to be cherished.
Tribal hierarchy.
God. (Him only or grouped,
translated stars.)
A man. His wife.
(Maybe: two more.)
A girl sits right at the bottom—
and yet,
her father carries her high.
With this bone-gourd,
he has become
someone.
DAFA RAFET
Yaay, Baay, and Goonay, Someplace in the Gambia, c. 1756
When mother and child
walk from the village
to gather fruit, faces
recite quotidian love.
Do you have peace
(Waw, waw, diam rek)
Then, they are alone, and the toddler
points out the fat-bottomed
baobab, the mango
with its frustrating reach.
Mother pierces a low-hanging
jewel, and her small
shadow trills gratitude.
Yaay, you are so nice
(Waw, waw)
Yaay, I love you so
(Waw, waw)
No demonstration, but a hand
touching the tender head
that was braided over cries.
Later that night,
the father must listen, too.
Baay, I ate a mango
(Waw, waw)
Baay, I saw a bug
(Waw, waw)
The child sits closer
to his mat,
whispers ambiguous lights:
I know all the things—
and he does not answer,
but smiles at his wife:
their daughter is a marvel
and they must pray for humility.
FIRST-TIME PRAYER
Yaay and Goonay, Someplace in the Gambia, c. 1759
The water was preparation.
When the mother
and her child rose
in the morning, no Jesus.
The same God, yet
with ninety-nine monikers.
We have awoken
and all of creation
has awoken, for Allah,
Lord of all the worlds
The bowl—
wooden or gourd—
was light, as water
and faith are heavy.
In the century after
this mother and child
are dead, someone
will write about
these mornings,
that the mother
poured a ritual
for her daughter
to remember.
This writing someone
won’t know of ablutions,
of giving peace,
of purity required
before submission,
that God’s servants
had ached
all night to be clean.
BEFORE THE TAKING OF GOONAY
Someplace in the Gambia, c. 1759
Mystery is the word for my purposes here. This child
frail, not quite whole. Not the leader of the gang. The strange
understanding
to be revealed. Is she dancing with the others?
Is there a shaking of tail feathers, a nonsense ditty? Shimmy to
the west Shimmy to the east
Shake it Shake it Shake it Yeah Yeah Yeah
A sharing of secrets with a lagging friend? I’m full of questions.
I can ask History what I want.
I can forget the rest. Why will the slave raiders snatch
a thin, sickly girl? Why not leave her behind for the usual spoils?
The men with clubs.
The charcoaled village. The old ones. The babies—
I can say, No. We won’t speak about all that. I can keep
returning to this blank
someplace before her taking. The story of the red cloth
not yet laid out. A genius child playing, brightness in
a mother’s crown.
A pearl if she lives by the sea. The strand of a gathered
plait. Needed point: surely, love doesn’t rest in emptied air
without some