Of Blood and Gourds

I sit, knees to chin 
contemplating my customs reentry card 
wondering whether to check the boxes that might betray 
my time among livestock and jungle shrubs.

These boxes ward against small organic stowaways 
that, if released, would recolonize the landscape.
(The irony endures.)
There is no box to check to ward against the ethereal stowaways I am harboring
stowaways of inception
that have already begun to colonize the flora of my spirit.

Maybe it’s best not to admit
this calabash gourd I’m carrying
the deepest resonator of a village gyil
was just doused with chicken blood last week
for a purification attended by baby goats and other wandering mammals, 
a purification meant to carry it all the way across the friendly skies 
and hallowed oceans 
(of a darker passage), 
a purification meant to prepare it 
for the accidental assaults 
of one who might try to use it to learn anew
how to listen. 

While the brains and the hands brokered a reluctant and troubled partnership,
the gyil burrowed hard into my humid skin.
A liminal tuning
An enjambment 
that claimed space in some of my deeper interstices. 

Akwaaba, obroni, back to the desert. 

As each buzzing whispering murmuring jangling calabash 
fills with cactus dust,
tiny ghosts of good intentions settle into the cracks. 
The hot fog of the Gold Coast 
abandons the gourds,
ascending elsewhere upon final descent.

***

Chiasmus

I take a swallow of infinity
And creep into the maze.

My memories are in heat.

They breed in the fingers
The solar plexus
The breath of symphonies
The taste of mist

The sound of sandalwood
The scent of song
The neural atlas
They brood in leaden skies.

Sometimes, they lie.

I crawl out of the void
And infinity takes a swallow of me.

***

Minarets

Sabah. (Dawn)

Wake up!
The adhan is impatient,
nudging the faithful out of another slumber
and into the brazen light of a new day. 
The dawn zephyr teases,
swirling from dome to dome,
writing calligraphy in the sky,
ghosting the margins of melodies
that hold something more than music. 

Rast. (Midday)

The tree of life climbs off of the carpet
and out of the carpet shop.
Roots snake their way through the earthy fibers,
creeping home, toward Konya,
lighting the path of pilgrimage
for mystics.
I drink apple tea
And trace the sefirot
With my fingers. 

Hicaz. (Afternoon)

Chestnuts roast on street corners,
lending a burnt, wintery contour
to the sultry summer breeze.
Holy cities and holy flight
beckon.

Segah.  (Sunset)

The late afternoon sulks, languid and slippery.
Crunchy fog seethes in the catacombs, 
while the adhan swirls through the subterranean channels 
in wisps.
The sun tips behind the bulbous ancient skyline
illuminating sebaceous straits
And fabled crossroads.

Ussak. (Last Light)

The cats of Üsküdar think they are auditioning for a sequel.
They wind their way through the benches littering the shoreline,
persistent creatures of shadow and mirth, vice and vanity.
Across the water, the Maiden’s Tower shimmers in the dying light.
The asp hides in the fruit,
waiting.

***

Wind Acknowledgement

The land acknowledgement enkindles
-for a moment- 
the soft grief and sharp cliches
of one more field, defiled.

Slippery earth, 
welcomed at last into self-actualization 
-for a moment- 
as a belated primary witness to her many grievances.

 But what of the air?

These winds have circled that earth
Defying entrapment. 
Denying debasement.
Delighting in suspended animation. 

I borrowed some of them 
-for a moment-
a catch-and-release metamorphosis.

Meanwhile,
Aeolus picked up a hitchhiking miroloi 
and scattered her about 
when he blew the winds back around again.

***