C'est Bon

(a rhapsody for Prudence)Impossible to say what I meanbetween uncommon tongues.I want to say: I see you, Prudence.Your carefully crafted life andwell-practiced poise as your doglaps the sky's mirror from the pool.I want to say: I understandwhat it means to marry for ease,to barter tenderness for an open door,as her older French husbandrecites Senghor in the courtyardI want to say: toggal ak man,as if that might be enoughwhen she appears at blue hours —head moon-bare, wig in handlike a crown she's weary of wearing,to bid, dormi bien ce soir.And though she tries, I don'tutter her known inheritances —not the one passed downlike lore, or the one forcedupon her by empire. I offer, instead,small phrases, over and again —ça va bien, désolée, merci —each one a pebble dropped echoicbetween us. Until one morning, Prudencetraces my gaze to the baobab,the griot's burial place. She harvestsand breaks open a pod, reveals two black seeds,and lays them in my palm, saying pour toi.Gesturing, she guides me to the herb garth —chamomile thick, sharp with lavender.She crushes leaves between her fingers, releasingtheir scents: c'est ci sont pour la facilité.At the smell of the nardus,I utter a small sonic miracle:Ahh, c'est bon pour mosquits.Her face agleam — très bon.And who's to say for surehow seeds and sparse words —the nearest I've felt to belonging —staved off our isolationsduring dry seasons.