mtoto

you, mtoto touch my arm

wondering about the hair

that grows straight and soft

over skin

that despite equatorial sun

is still white

pink really

because blood runs below

and in places blue

where veins and weakness show through

in this way you remind me

it's hard to forget my skin

the friends i’ve made here

can pick me out

wandering purposefully

in these walking streetside crowds

from a kilometer away

you, mtoto ask me about flying

as if i had the magic of wings

but it’s not magic it’s money

its magic of brutal history

and i trip over words

tracing circles backwards

bumpily landing

on air stripped of theories

the currency of my thought

standing flapping

ragged from flight

you, mtoto keep looking

from where you lay in the grass

or run on the dusty shoulder

miguu mifupi huu inakimbia

push your circle toy with the stick

or from where you tend your little goats

raise your eyebrows together with chin

saying yes

saying hey

saying we know

or whatever it is you are saying

that i don’t yet know

you, mtoto keep looking

at me

my white skin

and soft straight hair

turning grey

keep singing your

howareyous

for bob and biscuits, viatu

for joy or horror of the passing ghost

keep smiling and laughing

staring

as i stutter in solidarity’s language

i am trying

me, mtoto, najaribu

that certain love

us

it was not always certain

to be what it is

our love was always certain

it has taken time

it has taken us, taking chance

there were arms held out the window

one room in one brick building

in one city covered by autumn leaves

the arms held out a lit cigarette

it burning with deliberation

the smoke was escaping

we talked a lot about trust then

me having fractured it

and asking for chance

to have it back

it seems like this should have been covered

somewhere in the love poems

before

have i neglected this poem

instead, saving it

as a quick story explaining

what it took

this isn’t quick

this isn’t just the part about

getting in the car in the desert

driving all night and another day

to stand and ring the bell at her place

flowers in hand

this is these conversations

had, holding lit cigarettes out the window

had, with head in hands

resting on chins

looking into tearful eyes

that certain love

was the easy part

was there forgiveness

was trust enough

were we tired enough

of running and reuniting

in that apartment

on grand avenue

we did enough

talking and holding

chancing rejection

and future hurt

it was not certain

i remember my young self

looking into her blue eyes

and feeling her lips on mine

fearing it was a sweet final goodbye

and yet there is us

us now

when everything slides

there are days

when everything slides a little

and it is these days

i want to spend alone

with this tilting

staring out the window

at rain

there are parts

of my brain

that are warmer

at the same time

my body is colder

weaker in the world

fading to something else

it feels like the words

come from these places

cold and warm together

i loosen my set jaw

to chew on tom waits’s piano

and the notes fall

rain drops from clothes lines

streams fill up

on these days

running down

away

this battered pitch

this is your burning realism

here on this battered pitch

with wavering goals, with stuck trucks

with worms under skin

here is where boys become men

and men do what men do

and die

this is where you can’t forget

screams happen for many reasons

there is dancing and falling on the ground

in ecstasy

there is giving up to being held down

while it is cut out

and children are childlike

and die

and dying is your realism

drying up like wheat

spread out in the sun

packed up in beds

hands are holding

tracing peace we are told

truth from some angles

in language not grasped

at the border a cinder wall

you hide your neck

stick to noonday shade

when there is time

what is real radiates from your skin like heat