Elizabeth Acevedo

A Conversation with the Djembe

A man disrobes you on the train,

Touches you rhythmically.

Then asks for money.

But the only thing I have to offer

is this thirst, swollen in my throat;

I have been saving it for you.

They say you were the first tongue

we used to speak to God.

The love story between his foot falls

and our thundering need.

Our hands throbbing heartbeats

onto your skin,

we were born knowing you.

The mothers of the ocean

shared the secret song of their womb,

so that one day you might wail with,

wail for, other wooden rib cages

that held our moans like a fist.

This metal casket that propels us home

is no sacred place,

and no spirits are called forward.

Still, our bodies sway

and it has nothing to do

with the way the train moves.

But our awe is no payment

and the man snatches up his hat—

Yet, you allow us one last echo

and we hum a hundred prayers

into your hallowed mouth.