{This Poison}

An animal fear floods my throat when there is sudden movement
from the corner of the street where a tarp has been laid over the trees
to protect the men who smoke and drink and chew khat during
the hot hours of a Nairobi weekend day.
The fear boils in the back of my mouth, slow to retreat as I realize
that there is no one coming for my suddenly-fragile form
as I walk towards home.

I will tell you that I had to keep this bile in my throat, this poison.
This is not the kind of thing that you give to people wrapped in
pretty words with a loving card.
This is the kind of thing that shoots from your body.
So I swallow it.
And swallow it.
This is the kind of thing that I must keep.

The next time you talk to an angry woman, remember that she might have had enough
of keeping the bile in her throat.
She might be tired of the poison burning her tongue.
She might not have room in her body for a stranger’s poison.

This is not the kind of thing you wrap in pretty words.


{A Division}

I feel the memory before it is translated for me.
D— swings his arm wide from his body, just above
the ocean’s soft waves,
speaking quickly and persistently in his language.
The others laugh, their faces opening
wide with joy.
The memory as it is recited in a language I don’t know
sweeps over me, and I start laughing too.
The waves wash around us, cold on my body.
They turn to me to translate the story, words stumbling
out of their mouths.
I listen but I already know;
I’m already laughing.

{10 May 2017}

I feel the ghosts of poems unwritten in my mouth.
The man on the side of the road reading his texts;
The pink toilet in the ditch;
The girl cartwheeling on the field;
The theft of a home;
The spiced tea in a mug;
The outstretched legs on a blanket;
The blinking brake lights;
This time;
This life.
Here they are – just for you,
Brought out of their dark home.

{This House of Ours}

We built love up around us like a house.
The old traditions say that we’ve built upon rock.
The old traditions say that our foundation is strong:
It will endure the harshest storms blowing off the seas
Of our lives.

It stands the test of time:
While we redo the floors, the windows keep out the rain.
While we replace the glass in the windows,
We sleep on sturdy floors.

Our carpets are woven of steadfastness and the
Tapestries hung on the mantel, perseverance.

Even when we leave this place, this house of love,
It stands waiting for us, weathered but true,
It’s door swinging wide open for the
Weight of years lived apart.

{The Young Maasai}

Our young Maasai guide, Dickson, walks
Us in the land around our camp.

He is thin.
Under his traditional red wraps, shukas, and
Beads over his shoulders and around his waist,
You can see his ribcage, collarbones,
Shoulder blades, hips.

I wonder about how different our lives are
— I know this isn’t original —
But all the things I’ve experienced
That he never will.
All the things he has experienced that
I never will.

I wonder about how many layers I have
Covered my humanity with, the many
Different ways I have avoided the
Truth of the matter.

I wonder if it’s easier to find the soul if
You can already see the ribcage.

{The Morning}

Satao Elerai, Amboseli, Kenya
1 June 2016, 7:15 am

The sounds of the morning rise up around us, not-so-silent observers.
The kettle boils;
the dove calls from his nest his humble noise;
the crickets chirp;
the birds take flight, disturbing the air;
the coffee pot pours coffee;
the hot milk runs over the pan;
the zebras bark at a distance, their young just waking;
the birds — sunbirds, songbirds, many — sing to their thorny trees;
the sofa creaks under our weight;
the trees shift in the still morning air;
the pens move across pages;
the writers sip from cracked mugs;
and Satao Elerai wakes.

The Start of Something New (it feels just right…?)

On Thursday, I graduated from high school.

I left the world of high school, supposedly governed by grades and papers galore. I left the world of high school, supposedly governed by late nights and stress. And to a degree, that was true for me. In high school, I developed 24/7 migraines, as a result of stress; I stayed up many a night completing papers; and I did battle the vicious rule of numbers in a gradebook.

Primarily though, I was fortunate enough, blessed enough, to have a high school experience that was good, and good in the deepest way that I can mean it. Good because it grew me.

I went to a school populated by teachers who cared about me; they wanted to see me thrive and they tried to diminish the power of grades, as much was in their power.

I went to a school full of people who love one another and strive to encourage love as much as humanly possible.

I was surrounded by a group of friends who taught me a new way of moving in the world, a new way of walking through the garden that is my life. I was surrounded by hard-working, honest, determined, dedicated, and intelligent people.

That said, my overwhelming feeling is sadness. I am sad to be leaving high school. I am sad. I don’t know how to make this a less cliché or less vulnerable of a statement, but I am leaving this place a changed person.

As I move on to the next stage of my life, a new year and a new culture and a new continent, I hope you can join me. I hope you can join, because God only knows how much guidance and love I will need from every corner of this globe.

Welcome to this journey. In the words of the Shrunken Head on the most humble of vehicles, the Knight Bus, “It’s gonna be a bumpy ride!”


PS: If you don’t know what the Knight Bus is, please find out before you join the joureny. 😉

{A Memory}

There was a day I saw a man flat on the ground
in the red dirt beside the rutted road.
Foaming at the mouth, his whole body shaking 
I can still remember his wrecked form.

I’ve been told that people will fake a seizure,
to get help, to get money, to be pitied.
I wonder how one teaches their limbs
to rattle and their mouth to fall open, gurgling with saliva.

How desperate one must be to make
themselves vulnerable enough to collapse
on the dust-ridden side of a Nairobi street
and utter guttural noises until a person,
conflicted as I am now,
falls on their knees, a kind of
compassion in their eyes.

There are no answers here, friend.
Only an observation ― a paying of respect
to someone, somewhere, maybe.

{In Which I Write of My Own Death}

Today I borrowed books from a friend:
illustrated children’s books about the brain and books about teaching
students to listen to the —
well, the small voice in their heads.

I read them on the way home and
as we barreled down the hill in our long bus,
I was thinking:
What if I were to die today?

I believe that I ought to be comfortable with this idea, this death.
After all, who knows what my purpose might be,
surely not I.

I know people hope we cry when they die.
I only hope those I know are not quite right,
not quite comfortable with the immediacy, the reality.

I was thinking what a glorious mess that would be:
bodies, and glass, and me —
books about brains surrounding
my bloodied head like a pillow, or a crown.

Really, I only hope you find this poem, written in my notebook —
the last word, a mere scrawl,
the page smeared with my very last breath.

{The World Today}

The world is new today as I look,
instead of straight out, straight up through
my window on the bus.

Suddenly, the sky is rounded, spinning
around my head.
I look through the trees like a
blanket – and the birds
are my friends: we’ve shaken hands
a few times.

We, me and the cars and the road, are just
ants – our legs small and powerful,
our actions almost, almost nothing.