People Don't Blend As Well As Fruit

I say "I miss you" so often
it's transformed into goodbye
and now holds no meaning unless
said a hundred times.

I walk the muddy streets of Wolaitta, Ethiopia.
To my left music pursues from old boombox
and blends with the pattering of rain.
In Amharic they sing of a lamp and a light
and life well lived.
I jump over a puddle and the mud scatters
along the hem of my orange skirt.

I drink Fanta, Machiattos, mango smoothies
at the cafe in the bank building across from the
bus depot--the nicest place in town.
White faces I don't know appear and the waiter
speaks english. He knows the words for
egg, and bill, and money.

We spoke this morning but your sun
is going down and mine up.
Good nights and Good mornings.
I wish I could say that someday our hands
will always be smelted
but "Among all forms of mistakes,
prophecy is the most gratuitous."

You and I--we can talk of anything
from dogs to chickens to women
who beat their husbands to how much
we find each other irresistable.

I lie on the blue rag rug on the cement floor.
My lower spine bruising as I try to follow
the pilates video. Core strengthening.
So when you run your hands
along my waist in May
you'll say, "I love your stomach."

I count banana trees, one, two, three,
with bunches. I hope Alan the gardener
bring them to me when they yellow.
I don't like them over-ripe.

The Doctor says, "I don't like
this about their culture,"
as the children flock and pull the hair
on his arms and on my head.
They shout, "Faranji, Faranji!"
and "Give me money!" They might know
"How are you?" and "What's your name?"
But they already know my name is only "Foreigner."

Yesterday I wrote you a letter
and took it to be mailed today.
Nine Birr is almost a dollar
but it's little money to send my scent
and to remind you to miss me. To not forget
me over here in Africa.

The sun shines and the days pass by.
I have my classes recite, "I am going.
You are going. They are going."
Over and over and over
and I wipe the blackboard
up and down up and down.
The chalk smears
and blends in the black.

I will never assimilate here.
They see me coming
down the road and stop.
That little boy's jaw falls.

I hope your jaw will fall open when
I get off the plane. I hope you'll say,
"I'd forgotten how beautiful you are."
And I'll leap into your arms and finally
have that airport kiss.
But somehow I know this won't happen.
You'll be off somewhere else and I'll
drive home through familiar streets named
Pennsylvania and Roosevelt.
I'll be with family and
will only want you.

What I want most always escapes me.
I try not to want you too much because
I want you so badly.

A knock at the door and raising of hands
in greeting. A meeting of shoulders in friendship
and a "Tenastalin" spoken.
We have the coffee ceremony with roasted beans
and the dark clay pot just so.
B'Ket tells me she's praying for a husband
and I nod my head.
And we sip our coffee-
"Abasaganalo," She says, "Abasaganalo."