ONCE MORE TO GREEN-WOOD

I wander the graveyard 
in search of water.

Last time was so dry.

This time, I wend my way 
down to Sylvan Water, 
below the path called Vale. 

Just as the sun is sinking, 
the storm rolls in.

I sit cross-legged by the shore,
marvel at the glowing green hill,
the white temple flanked with lions,
lit by unseen stage lights. 

Sylvan seethes with algae,
shimmering
like a great, green opal;
amberwing dart 
and hover 
near the rocks and 
the brown paper bags 
pretending to be rocks. 

A woman in a denim skirt      
stands on the other shore,
waiting, as if an eagle 
will bring news. 

Last time, three Osprey did visit.

They circled above my head
with never-photographed
gold-dipped wings      
backlit by the sun.

That was last month,
when the mayor imposed 
an eight o’clock curfew. 

*

First there is wind. 

Then, rain. 
The trees roar and dance
like jovial monsters.

All the angels make sense: 
arms upraised, pointing 
at the cracked sky.

I surrender—sit in the lap
of a tree as this peculiar city 
comes alive with a flash 
of orderly rivers, 
all leading downhill
to Colored Lots,
recently re-named 
Freedom Lots.

There, the tombs
of Black folk
were leased then left 
to be swallowed up 
by the ground 
like teeth.   

I watch the current
swirl around my purple      
suede sneakers.

The storm is not off aways. 
The storm is here.  

*

My friend’s young daughter, 
Neta, wrote a poem called 
“Clouds Have Secrets.”

I don’t want to write 
about the storm. I can’t tell 
you everything I saw.

In the golden hour
before the guard found me,
I watched the world from 
behind iron bars. 

A mockingbird, 
bathing in a puddle, 
gave me the strangest look     
over one shoulder: the kind 
of look you’d give a ghost.

Not unlike the look
given to me
by a man out walking
his dog after I flagged him down.

Gripping the bars, 
I explained my predicament.

In my fantasy,
he offers two sturdy hands, 
creating a step ladder 
that allows me to leap
over the wrought iron fence
to safety.

In reality, he kept a safe 
distance. Agreed
to call 311 after I said, 
I haven’t got my phone.

My hair and clothes,
drenched. My mask,
stuck to my face. 

I want to tell Neta that
clouds have promises, too.

It has been some time 
since I made a promise,
though I’ve kept a few
for too long.

Object

Amberwing, Paper Bags, Green-Wood Cemetery, Freedom Lots

Body of Water

Sylvan Water

About the Artist

Safia Jama was born to a Somali father and an Irish American mother in Queens, New York. A Cave Canem graduate fellow, she has published poetry in Ploughshares, RHINO, Cagibi, Boston Review, Spoken Black Girl, and No Dear. Her poetry has also been featured on WNYC’s Morning Edition and CUNY TV’s Shades of US series. Jama is the author of Notes on Resilience, which was selected for the New-Generation African Poets chapbook box set series (Akashic Books, 2020).