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      her creature pain

      her pretty-little-baby

      pain

FATHERING #1

       Baay, Someplace in the Gambia, c. 1753

      After the required time,

      the seclusion to fool scream-faced

      souls: the naming ceremony.

      People arrive with gifts

      for the close-eyed baby with no sense,

      separate into men and women.

      They do not count their children

      like bad-lucked livestock—

      they eat. They talk.

      Chew kola.

      Pray at the required

      times. Then: eat.

      Still: eat.

      The baby unaware of her meaning.

      In years, her father’s expectation:

      her body hailing a good

      bride price, that she might

      sing forth sons—

      if she prays as well.

      At any rate, boys clearly hear

      the loudest greeting.

      Births to be cherished.

      Tribal hierarchy.

      God. (Him only or grouped,

      translated stars.)

      A man. His wife.

      (Maybe: two more.)

      A girl sits right at the bottom—

      and yet,

      her father carries her high.

      With this bone-gourd,

      he has become

      someone.

DAFA RAFET

       Yaay, Baay, and Goonay, Someplace in the Gambia, c. 1756

      When mother and child

      walk from the village

      to gather fruit, faces

      recite quotidian love.

       Do you have peace

       (Waw, waw, diam rek)

      Then, they are alone, and the toddler

      points out the fat-bottomed

      baobab, the mango

      with its frustrating reach.

      Mother pierces a low-hanging

      jewel, and her small

      shadow trills gratitude.

       Yaay, you are so nice

       (Waw, waw)

       Yaay, I love you so

       (Waw, waw)

      No demonstration, but a hand

      touching the tender head

      that was braided over cries.

      Later that night,

      the father must listen, too.

       Baay, I ate a mango

       (Waw, waw)

       Baay, I saw a bug

       (Waw, waw)

      The child sits closer

      to his mat,

      whispers ambiguous lights:

       I know all the things—

      and he does not answer,

      but smiles at his wife:

      their daughter is a marvel

      and they must pray for humility.

FIRST-TIME PRAYER

       Yaay and Goonay, Someplace in the Gambia, c. 1759

      The water was preparation.

      When the mother

      and her child rose

      in the morning, no Jesus.

      The same God, yet

      with ninety-nine monikers.

       We have awoken

       and all of creation

      has awoken, for Allah,

       Lord of all the worlds

      The bowl—

      wooden or gourd—

      was light, as water

      and faith are heavy.

      In the century after

      this mother and child

      are dead, someone

      will write about

      these mornings,

      that the mother

      poured a ritual

      for her daughter

      to remember.

      This writing someone

      won’t know of ablutions,

      of giving peace,

      of purity required

      before submission,

      that God’s servants

      had ached

      all night to be clean.

BEFORE THE TAKING OF GOONAY

       Someplace in the Gambia, c. 1759

      Mystery is the word for my purposes here. This child

      frail, not quite whole. Not the leader of the gang. The strange

      understanding

      to be revealed. Is she dancing with the others?

      Is there a shaking of tail feathers, a nonsense ditty? Shimmy to

       the west Shimmy to the east

       Shake it Shake it Shake it Yeah Yeah Yeah

      A sharing of secrets with a lagging friend? I’m full of questions.

      I can ask History what I want.

      I can forget the rest. Why will the slave raiders snatch

      a thin, sickly girl? Why not leave her behind for the usual spoils?

      The men with clubs.

      The charcoaled village. The old ones. The babies—

      I can say, No. We won’t speak about all that. I can keep

      returning to this blank

      someplace before her taking. The story of the red cloth

      not yet laid out. A genius child playing, brightness in

      a mother’s crown.

      A pearl if she lives by the sea. The strand of a gathered

      plait. Needed point: surely, love doesn’t rest in emptied air

      without some

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