Yemaya's Son

The oyster shells went out as planned, wrapped in strong paper, blustery kiss, all the year of embraces. A week later I'm certain Yemaya was listening, but wish I'd been a little more clear.

It's brunch at Elephant & Castle in Greenwich Village. Sitting next to me is the poet Yusef Komunyakaa, a child of the Louisiana delta and African diaspora. And as Kasha's hand brushes Yusef's, the ache for sweet touch is on both Jill and my faces. Jill and I have been friends since childhood and at this point we are again listening to the other's trouble-with-men blues.

We've mindlessly, thoughtlessly, teased Yusef that his Polish wikipedia entry is so short, since he is dating his Polish translator. But now the conversation has moved on to Faulkner's narrative structure. And Yusef, in his quiet way, mentions that Faulkner published an early book of verse called Helen and wonders if the fluidity of voice in his novels are informed by his poetry.

And the spoken nature of poetry comes up. How else to understand the golf course in The Sound and The Fury, and the haunt of the name Caddie, if you've not said it outloud?

Robert Pinsky has an elegant book called The Sounds of Poetry.

Poetry is a vocal, which is to say a bodily, art. The medium of poetry is a human body: the column of air inside the chest ... The reader's breath and hearing embody the poet's words. This makes the art physical, intimate, vocal, and individual.

Yemaya, am I wrong to miss his voice? I've got quotes, snips here and there that someone else has heard. What if I were to repeat them outloud, or put them in lines and punctuate? In private?

My voice was always unreliable around him. It took thought, mental lines and punctuation, to utter the simplest hi. And then he said hello.

In the meantime, a few cherished hours with the girls and Yemaya's son, a man of brilliance, artistic audacity and a book called Talking Dirty to the Gods that I reshelved quickly at the public library when I saw the cover.

It was beautiful, Yemaya, really, a wonderful morning, but, oh pretty please, that's not him.