Song of the Andoumboulou: 154

    “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

    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

  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...