I came to you, not so much changed
as I perceive now
but more newly named,
"Fatou Mata." Hair braided with indigo
wrapped about her waist and copper
and silver
entwined
and channeling
energy around a finger,
you laughed at me,
or my stories,
coming from Africa.

Perhaps because I held on to
braids salvaging
the split end days and ways of
"Princess Fatou Mata?" You called
as she sat beating her drum,
"You make step lighter to dance,
relieve my burden
to live."

Believing summer could endure
wet winds in February,
I also clung to memories unraveled
until one day
she did untress for you. Reveling
to wring loose fingers through
you chide on chaotic knots
no different
than last year,

a year more near than here
memory grows dim
and a minute too late is
too many to realize
I can't get there from here
and Senegal, O Senegal,
you are as far as
deja vu...

She stopped taking Prozac
gradually,
pill by pill,
then half,
and half of half,
each day,
then every other until
nothing.
No changes. Not one.

Imperceptible as a chemical
reaction, I'm your previous ex-
lover, now simply another
and fast slipping far
from here.