Sabar
By Amy Copperman
The griots called us from the waves at dusk
with the manic rhythms of open-bottom drums.
“Our ancestors beat the drum; our baks move the feet.”
A stick and open palm strike lambskin stretched
over wood that takes a woman’s shape.
And then it was time for our Tubaab Sabar.
I traded hard-wood floors for a pit of sand
moist from the humidity of the day.
And instead of a costume, I tied
a piece of cloth around my salty bathing suit.
They slowed their flailing hands and limbs so we
Tubaabs, without drum beats born into
our feet and hands, could understand what they know
in each muscle and bone. High knees, rapid feet
set to music with just a varied pulse.
I forced counts out of my head, off my mouthing
lips. No translation needed, the Sabars spoke for us:
“Ga gis tek tek ba rett.” And then faster.
With each word from the drum, my feet beat the ground.
Sand dancing through the air in time. For a time,
it spatters my sticky skin, paints it a new color.
——
Amy Copperman, a San Francisco native, struggling writer and recent graduate from Boston University, dreams of writing her way around the world. Her work has appeared in Glam.com, Pacific Crest Trail Communicator, and Smart Destination’s San Francisco Guide Book and blog.
This entry was posted on Monday, August 31st, 2009 at 3:58 pm and is filed under Poetry. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.
