Nathaniel Mackey

Song of the Andoumboulou: 52

    Never not another bridge to
cross, not before then so
  stark. We were beginning to be
        dead it seemed. Sought
                                     silence's
     counsel, wise in that way,
        leaning toward light,
   off-balance. Had it been a
     boat we'd have gone under,
                                        a
car we'd have slid into a ditch.
    It wasn't riskless we imagined
  we'd be but not defenseless. A
   feather broke our fall. We breathed
in. Light met the moment we left
                                       left us
     breathless, lidless, looking up at
   the sun. It wasn't ecstasy as yet
      but we kept hoping. A feast
     had been set we'd been told.
   A token rope let down from the
                                          sky
     hung out of reach and began to
                                            unravel,
  wind what we took to be rope.

   On Lone Coast we'd seen a runway
of sparks, light bouncing off
      water, the sun itself drawn
   out, reflected on water. A
                                    carpet
     of sparks inviting flight.
  Rung wound in with rug, lit
    runner. Auspice we took it
                                       to be.
  The bridge we began with vanished.
If not a runway and a rug it wasn't
   there. No way could we have walked
  it. We wanted it even so. A bed
                                          of hot
      coals it would've been, carpet of
                                               scars.
    Bridge being what it was, we turned
       away. The two whose future we
     were stood at our backs, each the
         other's whispered regret. "Locks,"
       he announced, lifting his hand, touched
                                                        her
     hair, braids he saw lifting the boat he
   lay down in, course he'd have run, boat
    being soul. Twisting a braid with one
hand, she answered, "Hair," as if correcting
  him, locks' lifted boat rescinded, her other
                                                        hand
  addressing his thigh. There we stood feeling
      the buzz of it behind us, turned away not
   knowing where we'd go next. It wasn't avenues we
    lacked, outlets abounded. Avenues availed
all around. None were so lit as the bridge we
                                                        turned
   away from. Light's white gleam wove no rug
    on water. No such whisper of soul tugged
                                                         our
feet



      ____________________


  Lift and being lowered he meant by
     locks, hair he knew to be hair
   notwithstanding, hers the knotted
       highness whose equation lay
     concealed, boat equaling soul
                                         equaling
   body's low blow, below-the-belt clasp,
                                                  clutch.
     The high inside of his thigh, quick
   sophic hand hers the hand whose caress
       came unexpected, the old story's
     echo at our backs as we retreated,
                                                 buzz
  and bridge made us run. The old story
    echoed again, more than echoing, meat,
   breath, bone's buzzed arrival adumbrated,
                                                        soon
  so abruptly come. What began as a bridge
now hummed in back of us, mixed ratteen voices,
    his and hers. It wasn't echoing an alternate
  life or a nether life, a stretch of lacquered
                                                       rope
     wielded sticklike though it was. It passed
   from the back to the front of us, a baton,
                                                      rotating
     bone

              .

   A rug of white light on the bay, late
sun. "If by the end there's been a
  sign this will have been it." So we
     thought or said we thought, though
                                                by the
   end there'd be no sign. It wasn't signs
  we were after, we sought what signs
     replaced, pitiless wish to be all
    there, that it all be there. It
                                        was a
healing song we sang had there been a song
                                                     we
   sang, a soothing song, Wagogo we'd have
  been. A winding sound we'd have made
     had there been a sound we made. Zeze
                                                     bowed
   by raffia, mbira plucked by thumbs,
       a grinding sound we made had we
     made a sound. But by the end there'd
         be no sound, sign's mute witness
   rescinded as well, white rug's amalgam
                                                    of water
       and sun now neither water nor sun. It
         was a dream drummed into the air we
        took in, a brink we backed away from,
                                                        rickety
    bridge. Had there been a song we sang it was
      extremity we sang, all but strangling song,
                                                          a
   straining
  song



      ____________________


    Brusque encumbrance unaccounted
for, bookless. Leafless the brink
   we stood on. Having been there
  the one vestige of soul we had
                                        left,
        we in whose newly spun heads it
                                                lay
     naked, a sheet of white light on
       the bay. Winter sun so unusually
bright but elegiac, brink was to
   book as rug was to water, debris
                                            pooled at
       page's edge. Blunt circumference the
            brunt we ran up against, now
         sought solace leg to leg, rut
           comfort, amenity's insinuative
    touch. Locks were to lift as
                                      weave
   was to rope, weave's moot connivance
                                                   dreamt
     emollient, hard
  stop