the enigma of arrival

the coarse fabric of hours
hours that never ignite
the sum total of a grinding life
and we forget and forget
the fires and the doors
the disruptions and the distractions
And we hope and hope
that it will take a journey
for something to crack open inside

there is hope but no waiting:
For you know by now
like falling in love
it takes the right time
It takes mysterious correspondences
(certain planet alignments why not)
it takes a catching unawares

Was it the elephants that crossed the camp
(And feather-like seemed to float in our field of vision)
Was it the river and the strange mermaids we shared it with
(The first Western travelers who encountered hippos for the first time called them mermaids for lack of a better word)
Was it sheer exhaustion after many days’ traveling
Was it the fear of the night before – of never arriving of never knowing -
Was it TS Eliot’s poems which I used to lull me into sleep
Was it the feeling to have stumbled upon an African heart
somewhere in the middle of nowhere
Was it the feeling to be lost and that maps didn’t mean much
Was it the enigma of arrival

I don’t know, but
in Flatdog, Zambia
at a most indefinite crossing of space and time
neither at the beginning, the middle or the end of our journey
in a moment of day that was neither morning or afternoon
in a sleep that was neither consciousness or unconsciousness
in a place that was neither an oasis nor the wilderness
There it stung me:
a door was opened wide
into the magic of childhood
(Don’t ask me to reminisce a story
I just remember the feeling
like having danced with a devil)

The wave washed over me
like a long rapture.

When I woke up,
It felt like
I had slept for several days.