because

there is no dry land

in sight

to swim to,

and the big fish is hungry

and I am too

and suddenly we stop

and I hear drums talking

as if the mighty water itself is speaking

a nursery of stars

splattering against its skin

faster

and faster

and nearer

and closer

and louder:

The Lion is near the village

The Lion is near the village

Run

Run

The Lion is in the village

The Lion is in—

MY MOUTH!

IN THE BACK

of my mouth

is an unbearable throbbing,

the painful squeezing

of a tooth

that jolts me

awake

in the middle

of the night.

CONVERSATION WITH THE SMALL-SMALL BOY

You have a bad dream.

I look to see where this whisper is coming from.

It is okay, says the small-small, sitting up and staring at me. The men outside have fallen asleep. They cannot hear us.

…

Please, Me din de Owuraku but most call me Owu.

I am Kofi Offin, I whisper back, pointing to my jaw. It is my tooth that pains me.

I am sorry… Where are you from, Kofi Offin?

Upper Kwanta.

May I ask you something? Why are we here?

…

And that is when it hits me

that the strangers

who brought us here

and the boys caged with me

are not from Upper,

and as there is no such thing

as a rite of passage

for small-small boys

the size of Owu

who are very much younger in age

than me,

and since we are shackled

like prisoners,

this cannot be

a challenge,

a game played

as part of some passage

to manhood ceremony.

No, this is something

far worse.

Go to sleep and rest for whatever is next, I urge Owu.

Obeying me

as if I were a big brother,

Owu lays his head

on the clay.

You will feel better, I hope, Kofi, he says

as I sit up

holding my jaw,

staring into

the agonizing darkness

of what I now think

is a nightmare.

WAKE UP!

a lanky man waving

a machete screams,

kicking mud onto us.

Along with the other men

he unties

the six of us,

drags us outside

where the sun beats down

and after our eyes adjust,

I see their mohawk plumes,

their sharp, stinging eyes,

and for the first time

the tribal marks

that hide

their cheeks.

CARVED

on the shaven sides

of their heads,

from eyebrow

to below the ear,

are pairs of lines

and patterns

and symbols

that say Strength

or Crocodile

or War Horn

but one of them,

a little man

no taller than me

with a tail of hair

hanging

at the back of his scalp

whose face does not glower

like the others,

wears on his cheek

the shape

of two fish biting

each other’s tails.

THE SLOW WALK

The rain slows.

In a tree above,

a perched bird watches,

fluffs it golden feathers,

and sings, Po Po Po!

The sound of drumming

grows heavier