Going to Africa

“I am not the prodigal son,” I said

to my mother who had come

to take me back. “I’m going to Africa,”

to see if my face colors her ground,

if my sadness thickens Sahara dust and famine,

if my wet season rains anything more than sweat.

I am not ashamed of searching.

But will she welcome me? I’ve left

English grammar, French phonetics, history,

anthropology notes, the King James Version.

And if not the color of her soil,

if my dance is toe-pointed and straight,

will she know me even as one lost son?

“I am not the prodigal,” I said more softly.

And if I’m told, “You’re American. Go home.

Africa doesn’t want fugitives.” Or turning

from my wheat skin, she awaits seeds deep

in famine soil and rainy human seasons,

I may find that a change of place

is nothing safe, and no other masks or moods

can tie back the cord that first fed me blues.