Who was my mother
in the sunlight as she stared
into the confluence of the Blue
and White Niles? Two ancient rivers
joining—the conjunction point—
now as one, flowing north.
What kept her there—her staring—
beyond the bright sun, as taxis left,
the National Geographic photographer
who was so friendly disappearing
into his car, as the sun dipped and darkness
shut without the usual red dusk
of the Midwest? What was
she thinking as she stood with her
young daughter in a war-torn Sudanese
country in 1959? Maybe it was our
emergency landing in Addis Ababa
or the recent death of my father,
or her vision of the conjoint rivers
beckoning her to dream their dream—
of water flowing, deep feminine current,
of blood, sinew, ash—
in the riverbed of dark mourning
the wet holding that she never felt—
but here in Khartoum—
the unfastening of herself, the unwrapping
of sorrow kept under—opening to her,
deep river of the given and the thin black
seam pressed against stone, that left
us at the river’s edge.
Men slowed their cars and yelled,
pretty woman, pretty woman.
My mother, startled from her reverie,
grabbed my hand, pulled me toward low trees,
running—blue air, forked trees,
our heads lowered, dipping, weaving—
the dark cathedral pulling us
through sheets, bright-winged angels
blaring down horns and light—
run pretty lady run,
under the winnowing dusk,
her hand pulled mine,
blue river traveling, white river
its conjoint stream, muddied source,
downdrafts and up-swirls,
bursting into itself,
moon behind its shade,
the arrowed legs
of her stride, my stride,
without definition, skirts unfolding
and refolding, our breath
formed by convergence,
then suddenly rain, out of nowhere—
flood of heaven, dream of ocean,
tide of mud and root.
Men in cars quicken their engines,
pull out into the flow toward town,
stilled, dark, pungent.
Blue meets White, offers itself,
moving north, spreads its ribs,
heaving and sighing,
knows its body—
deep fissure, animal element,
plumbs its course, a benediction.
About Alima Sherman
10 Comments
I’ve read some other of Alima Sherman’s poetry and this poem, as well as others, is evocative, perceptive, personal and deeply heart-felt. She mines her inner experience and comes out with diamonds. Thank you.
Susan Harper Slate
Just beautiful Alima. Congratulations!
Image after image leading us on a personal journey both to another country and to the writer’s heart.
Your work is always mysterious and beautiful,, and this one pulls me right along the river of your language and images. Congrats!
Yes, a benediction – many thanks, Alima:)!
Oh My God, Girl! I read it before; but, never like this time! I WAS There TOO!!!
Much luv…
This poem has stayed with me.
Hauntingly beautiful, universally evocative.
A mesmerizing journey through heart & soul. Alima Sherman is an astounding poet.
Alima….I am speechless and expanded to depths I rarely frequent….Thank you ……bb
So what is that flowing – in, through and round and about us but the confluent flow of love, in its austere bare beauty – as your poem so magnificently and beneficently pours forth – bringing all who read a blessing of spirit cleansing inundation?