“Song for Almeyda,” II.

In these caverns, Almeyda, are the 
waters that heal and a man-of-
many-names who claims
That you are safe
With the wise woman Zibatra, an old
friend of his and
                       Prophetess.
Wise men and women know each
                       Other,
As if they were drops of the
                       Same water.
These leaves I chew and 
dream of you
Or see you in waking.
You oil me with healing oil. The
man-of-many-names says that these
wounds are
                      Not deep,
Shoulder wounds,
Almeyda,
And that I’ve come here not
                      For the wounds but
for the spirit’s
                      Healing.
Zibatra, who is this
                      Zibatra?
A wise woman, he says, an old
acquaintance, though they’ve 
never met.

But wise men and women know
each other, 
As if they were
Seeds from the same pod. Are
you somewhere in
                     Alagoas?
Are you hidden in the
                     Forest?
But you oil me with healing oil.
Do I dream?
I do not dream; I look
Upon you with favor,
Com bons olhos.
Here, to talk of love is
                     Improper, to
kiss is impropriety. We are
Africans, says
                     Ovimbundo.
And war and love don’t mix. But I
must call you Amante
                     Anyhow.
Almeyda, Amante. Is this
                     Treachery?
The man-of-many-names is
scandalized by kisses.
Only Europeans caress with
                     Kisses.
In this New World,
You oil me with healing oil, and
kiss the wounds on my 
                     Shoulders. 
But they are not deep

                     Wounds,

Almeyda.

Do you hear the congadas? We
coronate a king.
But here we are all kings and
all servants too.
I do not make spears as in 
                     Palmares,
Or make the poison to tip
                     Them with, though
there are others who
                     Make spears
                     And
Repair muskets.
In dreams, I return to
                     Alagoas
To search for you.
But Ovimbundo, our leader
                     Here,
Says that for now,
It is best we both stay
                     Hidden
For Jorge Velho’s regiment
                     Of petitioners is
still scattered, hunting
                     Us, the
                     Palmaristas,
And searching the Barriga
                     Range.
The war is not ended. And
so I keep to this
                     Stronghold,

For it is best not to even
inadvertently lead the enemy
here.
So keep to your stronghold,
                     Almeyda.
They are still searching for us, even
along the frontier.
I dream you have been
                     Captured, and
Angola and Cabinda,
Palmaristas who have also
                     Been
Given refuge here
Confirm the wisdom of
the wise man and so I
Keep to this stronghold. It
would be rash, he says,
To seek you now, Amante, so keep
to your stronghold, and I’ll keep to
mine. 
Am I drugged?
There was a time I’d not have
listened even to King
                     Zumbi
If he gave me such an order. I’d have
searched every
                     Polegada
Of the Barriga range. Am I
not a free man?
Eu não sou um homem livre?
But by now, he says, they
know that I’m a 

                     Palmarista
                     Too.
But by now, he says,
The petitioners have revoked
                     My free
                     Papers.
Using freedom, they say, to
facilitate conspirators
                     Against the 
                     King!
And is not the king a
                     Conspirator
                     Against us?
       Would not the king trade
                     Anyone of us 
For a keg of English brandy?

Ovimbundo prophesies a time of no
slave traders
No slave peddlers, no
slave merchants, bartering
us for Sugar
Tobacco
Brandy
Flour
Manioc
Rum
Hides
Fish
Lumber
Gold 
Leather

Dried meat
Silk
Imported carpets
Pepper
Firearms
And when we Africans
Build our own cities
Not hidden in some forest or the
Barriga range
But cities in the open even
along the frontier from
Bahia to Rio from
Pernambuco to 
                      Jigonhonha from
Piaui to Maranhao from Para to
Rio Grande from Minas Gerais
to
                      Sergipe.
But between now and then,
                      Almeyda,
More slave agents
And more Captain Velhos than we
can count on all our
                      Fists.
O quilombo dos Palmares.
And not just the chalked
                      Faces,
Even pretos.
If color’s not contagious, then
slavery is.
Do I dare tell you of
King Adarunga?
But the collaborators and

                      The
                      Conspirators
Always have the same faces. Here, I
do not plan war
                      Strategems. In
Palmares, I knew King
                      Zumbi,
But here I do not know the
                      King. 
Perhaps they think it’s
easier not to have
                      Traitors,
If everyone thinks that
                      Everyone’s the
                      King,
So when they coronate the King,
They coronate us all!
Ovimbundo
And Bacongo and 
Quimbundo, Pedro
And Nascimiento
And Honorio,
Mandinga,
And Ioio, and
Xingar.
Here, I do not make spears or
repair firearms,
I grow yams, and
santonica,
And Indian pepper, and
agapanthus.

(Should I dare call it
The African love-flower?) And
I tend the king’s
                     Horses.
Horses are better than 
                     Spears,
Says Ovimbundo. Better 
than firearms. Though I
don’t know who the king
is,
Or what the horses are for.

You are rubbing me with
                     Healing oils,
                     Almeyda,
And I am planting
                     Agapanthus.
And we are in that New
                     Brazil
Building our own city, our
own free city.