A. Martine

And got lost wandering in the photography section of the museum
Scenes from Brazzaville circa 1955
I couldn’t focus on how beautifully they challenged notions of glamor
Displayed in a space that valued nothing of that culture
All I could do was dully drift, sidestep each picture, lean into it and stare
That man is dead now
And this one
And this one
And this one too—unless he was particularly prudent and took care
not to play with fire
In that case maybe he’s a really old man by now, chilling on his deathbed
waiting for the end
So I stand corrected. This man isn’t dead yet
He’s more likely die-ing. Which rings a little different
To be fair

There’s a section on West African art
Ghana, Ghana, Ghana again, Ivory Coast ornaments
Pottery pieces from Mali
Red ochre and milky amber
I look for my mother’s country
A lady nearby asks if I am alright—oh look, I am now sobbing
I say
I can’t find Senegal anywhere on this gigantic map
And she takes it to mean anguish
I don’t say
Suddenly feels like I am near a boat
Or rather in one
Water soaking down the flooding ramparts
And sinking me with it
This thing is wearing off and I am going to be sick
I don’t say no don’t worry I’m not really crying
In fact I feel like laughing
But I won’t do that else I’ll scare you more than I just did

I ambled into the African cloth installment
Dark room, four glass walls lit from within
I sat, a swaying vessel
And thought of my grandmothers
In their multicolored wax prints, headwraps draped and perched
Like a kaleidoscopic song
Brighter than the sun
This glass, it does not do these cloths justice
They don’t look so dull cascading from knees onto floor in pretty bundles
Or maybe color is leaking from my eyelids
I, too, am lit from within
And it is spilling out, outward
If I heave all this water overboard
I might salvage this plummeting boat
I should go home
If I stop crying I’m going to laugh
And it feels woefully inappropriate
No one should laugh alone