All That Africa

All that Africa is gone from me now.

There is no continent

where once it crept in my heart,

tectonic.

No canvas tent survives to tell

of water buffalo just outside the flap

or elephants looming in darkness

beyond the mothy lantern light.

There is no VW bus named Zinjanthropus

for you to practice packing the night before,

and pack again at dawn.

There is no high plantation

from which you can carry me down,

head reeling from the mountain air.

I can’t put a pocketknife beside you

to show the scale of your life in a photograph.

Mzee, I will lay you down gently

in the creek bed where we found you,

old hand axe,

and I will dust off my hands,

and walk back to the car,

and my eyes will try to see the valley,

but my heart will feel only the rift.

March 27 2023