GHANAIAN MORNING

Beat, beat, rhythm of feet. When did I learn
to look for danger? What’s stolen so easily
lost, but what’s poured into the dark
earth I can’t forget. Tried crawling out

of that space, crawling, calling his name,
but he was already gone. Open the window!
Let me hear! Is the plumbing moaning?
The hot loud 5 AM rooster? People running

barefoot on red dirt? Windows with netting
and bleating goats. My worn sandal lazily
caressing a grey cement floor. Nobody sleeps.
Lentils in red-red sauce waiting on the breakfast

table. I found potatoes, he said gaily, emptying
a sack of yams and cassava on the ground
by the stove where the girls cooked on the open
fire. Cool taste of apples teasing my mouth.

SOUTH FLORIDA POETRY JOURNAL. Issue 23. Spring 2022

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