mare&me

as part of the Afrika Recovery process, thank you Karen Lee

we breathe as one
the mare&me
a brrrrr muffles
my heavy exhale, she
sways her Blackburn
mane, knowing her beauty
she’s the anointed four-legged
to gift us her hair
for my mother’s imzad

I see in the sheen
of her tresses, how
mother will braid
each verse to honour
the desert, to mark
a lonely poem that doubles over
to bring us together
wrapped in black
cloth, carving bow
across dark hair
taut — only touarèque
only the women

and her rings
catch the light as she
plucks the neck, feathering
an old song

that skips to the part
when we — my sisters,
and aunts and me — lean
into a circle, into a
concert, a square
fabric wedge between
mother’s knee and calabash
green, the edge of the song

is a hindered sound
moving up the height
of the house, a quiver
like shifting from left leg
to right, this night
though, before mother’s
raptured tune, before she
gathers us to listen
before the imzad
carved from gourd
and midnight horsehair

we breath as one
the mare&me
building a stamina
for silence