Patricia Jabbeh Wesley
MY NEIGHBORS
In suburbia, you know that your neighbor is dead
when one day, there are long lines of cars piled up,
bumper to bumper, their driveway, clogged along
street corners you must navigate to find your way
out of a neighborhood of silent rows of houses, dead
yards of dying people. All their lost children who
have been wandering and leaving traces of themselves
everywhere else, except at this driveway, now, finally
home, but you do not know who they are or why.
Because they were lost also to their mother or father,
who is now dead. You know your neighbor is dead
when after the long lines of cars, suddenly, a truck sits
in your neighbor’s driveway, an estate management truck.
They will be selling all of your neighbor’s things,
chairs and beds, and stuff, but you still do not know
if your neighbor died swallowing a tablet or whether
your neighbor had a heart attack or not or whether
your neighbor is really dead or if you even had a neighbor
in that house. But today, your drive to work is limited
by the arrival of their unknown, invisible children.
Someday this week, the burial that you will not hear
About will take place. In America, you should not know
your neighbor or care to worry about your neighbor.
You should not go to your neighbor’s doorstep and knock
on their door to see if they are not well, dead or alive.
You should not check on the line of cars just down
the street or get out of your car or ring the cold doorbell.
This is a place where people hide guns at their doorways,
where you may be killed for stopping to say, “Hello.”
Like another woman next door to this now newly dead
neighbor who used to stop you on your morning walk
to chat with you, talking about the many years since
she’d lost her husband, and how she used to have a life
of ballroom dances and parties, long evening gowns, wine
glasses and travels, how she once sang in her church
choir, how she was once a center of the town before
her children grew up and disappeared into the old wind
that takes American children far away, until their parents
are dead and gone. And then they return for the estate sale,
for the fight for property and wares and money. She used
to stop you, so, one day you wanted to give her a book.
You wanted to find out, as she said, if she would read
a book on African poetry, so you placed the book
in your car, waiting for a day to stop and ring the doorbell,
and you stopped in front of her driveway, and wondered.
What if you rang the cold doorbell, what if someone
saw you ringing the doorbell with your dark skin, your
old black hair, your African accent, and called the police?
So you didn’t stop, you didn’t go in, and then one day,
you did not see the line of cars; you did not see the old
children return; you did not see the signs of her dying.
One day you saw the sign, “For Sale,” so, you stopped.
You wanted to know if they had taken your neighbor
to the Rest Home. But a neighbor said that she was dead.
Dead. Amidst the silent houses, estate sales, the aloneness
of this new world, and children not coming back home.
TUGBAKEH
AFTER TOO MANY YEARS
I was so long gone, when I finally arrived
in my hometown,
I could not find the road back home.
Time had swallowed up what used to be
the street into Mission Town, Tugbakeh,
down to my uncles’ homes
where the fireplace was burning hot,
children hollering as night came in slowly
and the sun returned to its own home.
I could not find Ngalun, where we dipped
our pails and our feet at the same time,
the way only villagers still do.
Today, I could not separate the mission
from the town or from the graveyard,
where the dead waited for God
to resurrect them on the day of resurrection,
on the day of our ancestral gods
meeting the other god, bestowed
upon us by the new-comers.
I did not find anyone I knew or who knew me.
I did not find the town I used to know,
and for a second, a woman thought
I was my Uncle Tugba’s daughter,
and greeted me the way you greet
a wanderer from a far country.
She did not know me, and the man who
welcomed us out of roads that had become
only footpaths, and offered us seats,
and sat and sat as if this were not
my father’s homeland, as if this were not
my father’s homestead.
When I finally saw my hometown, I had
become the lost daughter.
I had been so long gone, they did not
offer me kola nuts.
As if the town had run out of kola nuts.
As if all the kola nut trees had been
burned in that same ugly war.
I had been so long gone, it was two days
before I realized the tragedy
of being denied kola nuts in my own town.
I forgot how abominable the sin of not offering
kola nuts to a daughter on her homecoming,
how abominable that empty greeting.
I lost all sense that the man in charge
of our fathers’ homestead had forgotten
how to find the kola nuts,
how to slice each half of the kola nut,
how to wash and place the sliced pieces
in the kola nut bowl, how to offer the spiced
pepper, how to welcome home, the daughter
who had been too long gone.
Patricia Jabbeh Wesley is the author of six books of poetry, including her recent, Praise Song for My Children: New and Selected Poems, (Autumn House Press, 2020), When the Wanderers Come Home, Where the Road Turns, The River is Rising, among others. Her poems have been published or featured across the world and in the US in magazines and anthologies, including Harvard Review, Transition, Prairie Schooner, The New York Times Magazine, Black Renaissance Noire, among others, and her poetry has been translated into Italian, Spanish, Hebrew, and Finnish. She is Professor of English, Creative Writing, and Literature at Penn State University.