The Calling - Aaron Brown

I 

In three days, they took down the temple brick by brick:

the steel-toothed claws ripping apart tile and mortar, 

old rusted pipes bursting like shredded paper

while the demolition crew crawled around onsite, 

hard hats mirroring the summer sun till the day

when the dark-fisted cloud crept across the July sky – 

the rain that followed washed clean the remains

of the unused university building, the runoff 

streaming down the cracked drains of the last wall.

Wind threatened to collapse the exposed ribcage 

of iron beam and ceiling timber, wind across

the sidewalks and through the oaks lining 

the expanse of grass, emptied of students on break,

filled with the fog of a tempest so thick I couldn’t see 

out the barred windows of the library. I waited

for the break in the storm like a cloud 

across the sun, that seemed to speak leave

or you’ll lose your chance.

 

II

Outside, the wind had left its rubble along the sidewalk:

the broken branches, split acorns, wash of mud 

along the path like a brushstroke. The fog settled down

and in its break I saw flashes of a place I had left 

that wasn’t the library or the bus stop

but dunes, thorn trees, carcasses of cows, 

and the dry bed of a rahad yet to be filled, and I saw him,

riding on his motorcycle, riding the dirt road he takes 

to work every morning, Madri coming from the mist.

We met in between the fog and trees, soaking 

in the rain we shared in silence. I had forgotten

the lines across his forehead, forgotten how long 

I had tried to make sense of his death. He was dry

and his voice was dry, as if it hadn’t been used

these sixteen months in the soil.

 

III

His words came over the rain patter, light yet labored:

When the last child has died of thirst, when the old woman 

goes past the furthest house and disappears in the desert,

when the last bull has withered to its ribs, breathed its final 

breath, and the mourners still gather ten years later,

still say my name and sip the same tea on the same rug 

in the same yard, when the water never comes again

to the dry riverbed, and it has been dammed upstream, 

when all the herdsman have waited hours

for its drops – who will write about this place? 

I said I will I said I have to and then I walked past.

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Aaron Brown (20th century) Chad & USA

Source: World Literature Today