Song of the Andoumboulou: 154 Nathaniel Mackey (bio) “What flashes past will be known as Late Arcade,” Sister C explained, she the oracular traveler new to our group. Steal-Away Ridge kept our feet in place as we looked out at the hills below. We were back at polis’s roots it seemed. . . The one sea lapped eventually west as we wound our way down, a spiderlike left hand descending the strings were it a bass we rode. When we got there Pescadero sat stranded in the sun, the mescaline hum the foothills had been an unlikely shush. . . A place of panic Sister C dubbed it, quiet as it was no matter, eucalyptus light likewise. We were back at polis’s roots we couldn’t stop thinking, miscue no matter the thought was, back in some begin-again lurch. We said forget it, we said polis never liked us. “Never likeded us,” Netsanet laughed and said. . . She was keen on what would not fall apart we could see, intimate- ing Nub rushed in regardless. Quag’s return a re- turn to Quag the reports had it, the late buzz on the radio the news’s hard loop, flies caught in our ears it seemed. An emergent puzzle piece all hands would be burned by it might’ve been, Pes- cadero sat stranded in the sun, the sun setting on water, watery faces panic elicited sown on the sea. . . Thus it was none of us wanted to be there after sun- set, none of us wanted to access polis’s roots. Polis was the police Netsanet reminded us, remanded us to all we already knew. Something seen in a face pelvic savvy grew sweet on, something in a face af- fection tugged at, polis’s retreat, closed-eyed an- nulment night an- nounced [End Page 19] Sister C stood white as a ghost, never more naked, no coat of color in sight’s way. What we saw in her face was its critique of sight’s tease, musing’s forfeiture, straw we grabbed at, grope no matter we might. “Say something,” it said, unremitting, “Say something,” meaning to or not. “Say something,” the it underneath it also said. . . “Dreamt I woke up dreaming dream’s defeat,” we all said at once. We held our noses at the polling place. Not to get weary she counseled us, weary though we already were. No one worth voting for to vote for, we broke into a dragged-foot walk. It was a slow commencement walk, dirgelike, polis’s roots’ recall. . . Polis was a wall we remembered, polis was to keep others out. We made our peace with the passing of things caroling complaint, peace our bulería belied. Piled rocks, rock pile, part spill, part rumba, peace with the passage of time. Polis’s would-be reign armed against it, slow tread we gave ourselves over to, up to, monuments’ erosion we re- hearsed. . . A mimetic walk it was we walked, rocks’ wear, stone’s erosion. “Dear Sister C, assist us,” we pled. “Hallowed be your heavenly girth, sweet midriff, almond-eyed address, fleet regard. . .” Skin’s graduation and bone’s bore down on us, more than we could see or sur- mise [End Page 20] Our slow dance at the polls unfolded no matter. . . They closed early after opening late. . . Sister C was Our Lady of Moot Outcome, beg oth- erwise though we did. Was that all there was we wondered, we who were to be bodiless one day, a paean to the boon bodies were all there real- ly could be. So it was we saw it, extolling underarm sweat, calling it sacred sweat the longer we walked. . . Sister C was a mock muse wagging her finger. The whiff we caught coming off it cut like a knife. As if that was all it all came down to, as though arrest were an un- expected perfume. Inside she hoisted a cheer for her body’s abidance’s musk we could see, Sister C who sat at a table hawking pamphlets, books and brochures, by now not white as a ghost any-. more . . We caught sight of her shapely calves under- neath the...
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