To read Abayomi’s Interview with Aliki Barnstone in this issue more poetry

Abayomi Animashaun History Lesson On the wall is a map of places, the so—called explorers — Mungo Park and the rest of them— Discovered. But did they know Of my longing to kiss you tonight? Did those leaders who went to Berlin In 1885, when they sought to open a ‘dark continent’, Did they know of my lusty need to ravage your breasts Holding you against the cold stove? (This is taking too long!) Why not travel to my chest, And I to yours on that bed You know so well, and rewrite history The way we know how? My Son The boy I never had Goes to school Somewhere. Every morning, He packs his bag And walks away From the other Boys and girls. He skips school a lot, Distracted on his way By rats, lizards, And spectator cats on window sills. Sometimes, While chasing a stray, He winds up at the school gates And goes in grudgingly. . . He sleeps during lectures, Questioning the need For adding or subtracting Using such stupid tools As numbers. Nothing in school matters, Save for the stories Of occupations and conquests, Rebellion and uprisings. He sleeps during And after recess. Most times, he is asleep When the final bell rings. After school, He returns To the village of the unborn To join the other children, Everyday wondering About the uselessness of school And the fool that denies him life. The Unseen They come with the second flood — At the hour when We are high—wound in the dullness Of our daily work — Singing the tunes before the first words — Before the separation, Before the Creator got drunk on wine And left the act to the hen. They come carrying Pots filled with no water, And trays with no trinkets, Walking among trees, Their cold bodies gleaming dark From the river with no water. __ On the streets, we don’t see The long rounded shapes Of their footprints, nor Hear their murmurings. Still, everyday and in the same hour They sit beside us. Wash their infants Beside us and conduct their festivals. They send their children to their school To learn their own alphabets and Make their own music. __ We await their dark arrival — That gust of wind, That last minute breath Against the thatched leaves. The fire catches. The carpenter tightens his grip Pounds in place that nail with the hammer. The farmer pulls hard at the weeds. The school teacher points his stick, The third time, at the map of a people near-forgotten. The student raises her head from a book. The man locked-gentle with the other woman, Feels the sudden need to be home.