Origins

Yes, track me the scent of my skin on a coast off Paramaribo
where a trade wind blowing its precious cargo
doesn't know that one day they'll build rockets
from behind those trees and aim for the moon
where this captain is sailing his ship by the stars

Trace me that line of ancestors on that shore
Ibo, Hausa, a Madeiran fisherman drawing his nets off a reef
waters that flowed from Chechnya and the Nile
one single ice-flow melting
down from the tundra

I am listening for the soft pad of a footfall morning
a Yamomani and Macusi morning
a grandfathers-who-don't-know-their-names-yet morning
skin melting into ochre forests where young men
are rubbing tinder sticks in the sun
and women drape skins even as you

dropping soft-pawed from the rocks
spine bristling with porcupine quills
into new centuries of prayer flags and eddoes
and turbans mimicking a call

land on the prow of this ship
and watch the captain as he stares at the stars
thumbing his salt-water map
his wolf-eyes holding the moon

Yes, track me the scent of my skin on a Paramaribo morning
where an archipelago whispering the rosary
calls so enticingly.
But, tread water, wait.
I don't wish to arrive yet,
not just yet.