A storm tarries, hanging over Koffakoi and the nearby Aghien Lagoon. From the village's community hall, I take in the scene through a panoramic window snaking across the room. I watch water fall onto the corrugated roofs of surrounding houses before descending onto the copper-toned earth as slight pillars.
Rain strands form
A fleeting lyre
Or colonnades
Before it began to rain, I looked into the village’s main well, lightheaded, imagining descent. Now, the torrent underway and the well far out of view, I imagine it filling.
At noonday
A storm sweetens
A stone well
Bundles of just-washed laundry damped. Deserted mid-wring, they now unfurl slowly. Nearby, people have set out buckets to gather water. Already the rainwater spills over the rounded edge of the containers.
The pail brims
Its lip dampens
A thirst is quenched
In Grand-Bassam, a kente weaver and his companion lounge under an open-faced shanty. He speaks about his craft, learning it from his father and teaching it to his son.
On a bleached loom
A tossed shuttle docks
In a sea of silk
On a beach, boys play on the shore with waves and mares.
Gypsies chase whitecaps
and once saddled
Bloodless horses yield
I stand on the second floor balcony of my aunt’s apartment. Before me are white shirts sprinkled with white dust from the replastered balcony above. Below me are my sandaled and bug-bitten feet. Around me are the swelling murmurs of pre-resurrection day prayers.
Dreams of revival
A mosquito drinks
A minister’s blood
Preparing to leave, I take a final walk through Riviera 4.
Wind meets flesh
A prodigal touch
From a distant womb
