Wordscram
The chicken stew
is not that bad.
I eat two bowls,
and after we clean up,
while Sia plays
with my phone,
Joy and I
play my favorite game.
for the last piece
of cake.
TR. Ten seconds. Ready, go!
Wait, that’s too fast.
Fine, I’ll start. Terrible Rains.
Hey, you stole mine.
Six seconds. Tick-tock.
Trouble Runner-Seeker.
That’s three words.
I used a hyphen.
You can’t make up your rules, Joy.
Aren’t you running from trouble, but seeking?
Whatever, Thunderous Rebel-Rouser.
Ha! Transcontinental Roamer-Believer.
Tantalizing Rhythm-Keeper.
Who? Me?
Yes, You. The way you walk, it’s, hmmm, mesmerizing.
Be careful, Blade. Timely Regrets.
. . . .
Your turn.
You win. Enjoy the cake.
Wahala!
Huh?
Means trouble. Blade, you are Wa-ha-la!
Texts to Storm
4:01 pm
Too busy to text your brother,
huh? No worries, I’m just
stranded in the middle of a
4:01 pm
monsoon in the Ghana
bush. Looks like another
night here. At least the food
4:01 pm
is decent. And I’ve met two
girls. Well, one is a little five-
year-old, who is the kind
4:02 pm
of sister I wish you were.
Kind, happy, not a nuisance.
Also, a very cute nineteen-year-
4:02 pm
old, who I think kinda
crushes me. But don’t
all girls. I’m staying at
4:02 pm
her uncle’s. He’s old,
doesn’t say a whole lot.
Better than last night’s
4:03 pm
accommodations. I feel
a little helpless here. The
men spend their days cutting
4:03 pm
wood and building stuff,
which, as you know, I’m
no good at. I could write
4:03 pm
a song about it though,
if I had a guitar.
If I still played music.
4:04 pm
Kiss Mick and Jagger
for me. Hit me back,
Storm.
Bedtime
Enough texting. Time to rest.
Where will Sia sleep?
I suspect, in your arms.
I kinda need my space. Where do you sleep?
In the room in the back.
Can’t she sleep with you?
Go on, ask her.
I look into Sia’s eyes,
and nothing in them says
she is parting
with my arm, leg, or neck.
And then she winks,
as if to say,
Go on, I dare you,
break my heart.
Of course, you’ll have to sing her a song.
Not gonna happen.
Or a story. Auntie Lucy always tells her stories.
I don’t know any stories.
. . . .
I guess I could read her Charlotte’s Web.
She won’t fall asleep otherwise.
Is she potty trained?
She is five years, not five months. You will not have to
worry about that, Blade.
“Where’s Papa,” I read.
Alarm
You Americans sleep a lot, Joy says,
standing over me. Wake up,
my friend, let’s eat.
Breaking Our Fast
We sit around,
and eat sweet bread
and fruit.
Please, Sia, you need
to eat, Joy begs.
She thinks she can
live on stories
and song.
I bet
I can get her
to eat something, I say.
Hey, Sia, watch this, and
I take
a piece
of bread
and gobble it
like a monster.
Sia giggles
and shoves
a piece of warm bread
and then another piece
into her mouth, then
gobbles it all
like a monster too.
Blade, we don’t play with food, Joy says sternly, but
I can tell she
is trying
pretty hard
not to laugh.
Plus, she’s happy
Sia is eating.
Joy says
when it rains
it pours
in Ghana.
There is no
safe passage
for teachers
to get
to school.
Craters
in the road
fill with water
and bathing birds,
and every inch
of earth
and sky
is blurred like
an impressionist
watercolor.
So there is no
school
and no
rules
for learning
until further notice.
Text to Storm
8:19 am
Morning. Still storming
here. I’m alive though, in
case you wondered. But,
8:19 am
my phone’s about to die
because the electricity
just went out. Joy says
8:19 am
it happens regularly. WT??!!
She’s cute. Joy. And smart.
Still crushing me. Holla back!
Holiday
Joy says we should
keep Sia on schedule.
Teach her
the alphabet,
read her a story,
help her learn
her chores.
But Sia wants to play games
and so do I.
So we run around
playing hide-and-seek
and then we crawl
on the floor
like mountain lions
on the hunt.
We growl
and laugh
then growl
some more.
You must think
this is holiday, don’t you?
Joy says, shooting us
a look.
Sia and I get up
to dance
and Joy
hands us
a broom
and some rags
to start cleaning
her uncle’s house.
Undeliverable
8:22 am
This is an auto-response.
The text message to Storm
Morrison failed to send.
Conversation
You move slowly without your little helper.
Is she coming back?
You will have your privacy now. She is off with a neighbor,
playing with cousins. She will be fine.
Oh.
You miss her already.
It’s probably best. I really need to see my mother.
. . . .
. . . .
When you get back home, what will you do?
End of the summer, I’m off to college. You?
Eventually college. For now, I have responsibilities. Then, I
will save for my secondary studies.
You haven’t finished high school yet?
I have one more year to complete.
. . . .
It costs one thousand dollars a year, and that is more than
most families here make in a year or two.
So no one goes to high school?
In the past ten years, only two have gone. Most of the girls
will become domestic helpers in the city, and the boys will
hunt and cut timber.
I’m sorry.
You should not be. There is work to be done here, to give
the people an opportunity, a world to build a life on. That
is nothing to be sorry about, Blade.
. . . .
After watching
her lips
spread
with such passion
and intent,
we share a moment
of silence
where I don’t know
what to say
and I am staring
and the rain is dancing
and the moment feels perfect
for something.
The Moment
You know how
you can politely
be
at the tip
of a grand ocean
and you can see
the wave on its way
feel it propagating
through water
bending sprightly
toward
its crest
and
you know how
when she finally
spills
into you
pinnacles
and spindrifts
against your thrusts
and you are overcome
unbound
and nearly
engulfed?
That is how I feel
right
now
listening to
her speak.
Stare
Sorry. What are you
thinking? Family, I lie. You’ve
hardly mentioned them.
Family
What do you want to know about my house secrets? My
family is an envelope that’s sealed. Literally.
Well, there’s a story in there. A before the envelope, a
now, right? she says as rain pounds around us, keeping
us inside, keeping us talking, and playing this guessing
game of who are you?
Who am I? I don’t really know, or I guess I don’t really
care.
I’m the son
of a man
who named me after
a Marvel Comic.
I’m the son
of an addict
who used to be
a guitar hero.
So that’s where the music comes from.
The music has been with me since day one. Those guitar
chords used to help me understand the world. There’s
always music in my head. Even still.
I can tell. You have a special rhythm when you walk and
talk, she says, pinching my cheek. Like your mother.
She stares into my eyes.
I know this look.
This is the moment
of captivation.
I’m going in.
You know how
you can politely
be
at the tip
of a grand ocean
and you can see
the wave on its way . . .
What are you doing, Blade?
I was just . . . trying . . . to . . . kiss you.
Why?
Because it felt right.
That is not a good idea.
I thought we were vibing or something.
Chapel?
Huh?
Your arm. It’s written in ink, with a rose.
. . . .
. . . .
She was my girlfriend. Emphasis on WAS!
I see.
. . . .
Blade, you can’t just come kiss a girl because you miss a
girl.
Someone I’m Trying to Forget
Her smell of spicy cinnamon
her golden skin a sunset
the blue wonder
in her gaze.
She could meld
into me,
and we would build
a tower
of love
that stood above
all the others:
the Empire, the Eiffel,
Liberty herself.
The city beneath us
wanted to see us crumble.
The lore of our love
had no choice
but to escape and
fall off . . .
She jumped
without me
leaving me
alone
without a light
and I’ve been lost since.
Conversation
You love your American woman.
I loved her.
Get some rest. I must check on the school and the families.
Wait, I’m sorry, Joy.
Don’t be.
It won’t happen again.
Blade, if there is no destination, why take the journey?
Thought
Her legs
her lips
are fire.
But, her goodness
could probably light my life,
if I weren’t
such a shady secret.
After four days
of nonstop rain
electricity returns
and the sun
reveals itself,
finally.
The men
go back to cutting trees
the women wash
and balance
the world
on their heads.
The guide
returns tomorrow,
then I will make the trek
to Lucy November.
This is it.
Sia rejoins me,
under the coconut tree,
and we watch people.
I feel bad
that she has not
been in school,
so I teach her
counting, letters,
“Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star”
and every song
I can remember
Mom singing
to me
when I was little.
Conversation
Sia, Mr. Blade has to go to a hotel and get a proper
shower.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star, she sings . . .
Exactly, but now I have to go.
Wonder what you are.
Give me a hug.
No, please, she says.
I will come back tomorrow and see you, before I go to
meet Lucy November.
Auntie Lucy, she says, her eyes big as the coconuts that
fall randomly.
Tomorrow, I finally get to meet her.
No, please. Bring Auntie Lucy. Don’t go.
We hug each other,
and like a freight train,
a huge bus screeches to a halt
when an unmistakable voice
yells.
Rock ’n’ Roll, Baby!
I look up and see
a familiar face
hanging
from the window
like a shaggy dog
dressed up
in glittered glam.
Like groupies
at a concert,
a motley crew—
guy with video camera,
biker woman with notebook, and
UNCLE STEVIE—
bounce
off the pimped-out bus,
making room
for their leader
to jump off
and tackle me
with a gold-
and-jewel-laden
bear hug.
Who is this? Sia asks.
Pa
apa, I answer in her language.
Paapa? she asks, looking at the strange man with the long
hair and the big guitar.
Yep, that is my father.
We’re the Morrisons
Rutherford
just stands there
waving
at the children
like he’s waiting
for applause.
He takes
his guitar
off his shoulder
and starts
jammin’ right there
in the middle
of the village.
The children,
transfixed on the
pimped-out bus,
come running
from school
and swarm him
like he’s the sweetest
thing they’ve never seen.
Even little Sia,
who hasn’t left
my side
in days,
runs over
to him.
Conversation
Rutherford, what are you doing here?!
Don’t act so surprised. We missed you, son!
You can’t be serious!
I’m clean. Got my sober coach, Birdie, who’s helping
me stay on the straight and narrow, and my camera guy
filming me and Stevie’s comeback.
He adjusts all his rings
and bracelets and runs
his hands through his
unruly hair.
Comeback?
Kid, the band is getting back together, and we got a
camera to document it. MTV, VH1, somebody’s gonna be
all over this, son.
Don’t you think you should have called me before
showing up?
We did. Storm was in charge of that.
Delayed
My phone is barely charged,
and after four days
of no electricity
and spotty service,
I turn it on
to find two days
of incoming text messages
from my sister,
the last four
in ALL CAPS.
Texts from Storm
7:45 pm
BLADE, DAD AND UNCLE
STEVIE ARE COMING TO
GHANA IN THREE DAYS.
7:45 pm
TRIED TO STOP HIM, BUT
HE’S GOT A BIG IDEA. BE
NICE, BLADE. HE’S DOING
7:45 pm
BETTER. I WOULD HAVE
COME, BUT RECORDING.
HE RENTED A LUXURY
7:45 pm
PARTY BUS. GOOD
LUCK. WHY AREN’T YOU
RESPONDING TO MY TEXTS?
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