Saturday, November 28, 2015


Today, just now, I played a djembe in my home for the first time.

Not the place where I sleep, but my home. The place I grew up in.

I played. And heard my father walk in. And he sat down with my back to him,

and said nothing.

And I worked my way. And he watched me find a rhythm.

And sat and said nothing.

And I began to sweat, and I began to commune,

And he laid down and closed his eyes and said nothing.

And I removed the muffle and found all the notes of the drum and found myself able to make Lati Oja* sing,

And he lay with his feet up,
on a love seat at least as old as me,

and he closed his eyes and communed and said nothing

And I heard a foot patting, and it helped me in rhythm,
and I beat harder,
and patting,
and I thought it might be clapping,
and it became stomping,
and I thought it might be him
but my sister had come into the room.

And she began dancing the dances,

(and it may have seemed in jest,

even so - there is always some Truth in jest,

and feet dancing in spirit always step true)

And I played with right eye closed
to keep the collected sweat resting
precariously on that eyelash that
my hands were too involved to brush.

And we communed.

And she left.

And I got up and looked at him, peaceful.

And I walked upstairs,

And I began to type,

so I wouldn't forget..

the first time

he and I

had ever.


(*Lati Oja is the drum)

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