Pleasure Dome. Yusef Komunyakaa

      When the last song

      was about to leave

      dust in the mouth,

      where termite-eaten

      masks gazed down

      in a broken repose, you

      unearthed a language

      ignited by horror

      & joy. A cassava

      seed trembled in a pellet

      of fossilized goat dung.

      The lifelines on my palms

      mapped buried footprints

      along forgotten paths

      into Lagos. The past

      & present balanced till

      the future formed a

      wishbone: Achebe,

      you helped me steal

      back myself. Although

      sometimes the right hand

      wrestles the left, you

      showed me there’s a time

      for plaintive reed flutes

      & another for machetes.

      I couldn’t help but see

      the church & guardtower

      on the same picturesque

      hill. Umuada & chi

      reclaimed my tongue

      quick as palm wine

      & kola nut, praisesongs

      made of scar tissue.

       —for Chinua Achebe

Nightbird

      If she didn’t sing the day

      here, a votive sky

      wouldn’t be at the foot

      of the trees. We’re in

      Rome at Teatro Sistina

      on Ella’s 40th birthday,

      & she’s in a cutting contest

      with all the one-night stands.

      “St. Louis Blues” pushes through

      flesh till Chick Webb’s here

      beside her. A shadow

      edges away from an eye,

      & the clear bell of each note

      echoes breath blown across

      some mouth-hole of wood

      & pumice. So many fingers

      on the keys. She knows

      not to ride the drums

      too close, following the bass

      down all the back alleys

      of a subterranean heart.

      The bird outside my window

      mimics her, working songbooks

      of Porter & Berlin into confetti

      & gracenotes. Some tangled laugh

      & cry, human & sparrow,

      scat through honey locust

      leaves, wounded by thorns.

Tenebrae

       “May your spirit sleep in peace

       One grain of corn can fill the silo.”

      —the Samba of Tanzania

      You try to beat loneliness

      out of a drum,

      but cries only spring

      from your mouth.

      Synapse & memory—

      the day quivers like dancers

      with bells on their feet,

      weaving a path of songs

      to bring you back,

      to heal our future

      with the old voices

      we breathe. Sometimes

      our hands hang like weights

      anchoring us inside

      ourselves. You can go

      to Africa on a note

      transfigured into a tribe

      of silhouettes in a field

      of reeds, & circling the Cape

      of Good Hope you find

      yourself in Paris

      backing The Hot Five.

      You try to beat loneliness

      out of a drum.

      As you ascend

      the crescendo,

      please help us touch what remains

      most human. Your absence

      brings us one step closer

      to the whole cloth

      & full measure.

      We’re under the orange trees again, as you work life

      back into the double-headed

      drumskin with a spasm

      of fingertips

      till a chant leaps

      into the dreamer’s mouth.

      You try to beat loneliness

      out of a drum, always

      coming back to opera & baseball.

      A constellation of blood-tuned

      notes shake against the night

      forest bowed to the ground

      by snow & ice. Yes,

      this kind of solitude

      can lift you up

      between two thieves.

      You can do a drumroll

      that rattles slavechains

      on the sea floor.

      What wrong makes you

      loop that silent knot

      & step up on the gallows-

      chair? What reminds you of the wounded paradise

      we stumbled out of?

      You try to beat loneliness

      out of a drum,

      searching for a note

      of kindness here at the edge

      of this grab-wheel,

      with little or no dragline

      beyond the flowering trees

      where only ghosts live—

      no grip to clutch the truth

      under a facade of skylarks.

       —in memory of Richard Johnson

Double Limbo

      A sun dog hurries a lover

      home from a desk job