The Lessons of Ilkurot Village
A poem by Claire Coenen

The Lessons of Ilkurot Village

It is afternoon.
I am 17 in Ilkurot Village with my mom.
The Maasai warriors, in robes of blood red magic,
dance in a circle. Jump with wings on their feet.
Hum a guttural rhythm beneath a melody freed
from the throat of a man throwing
his head back to heaven.

It is evening.
I stand on the hill. Stars spill into the sky after dinner.
The Maasai children want to play.
My mom pulls a harmonica from her pocket. She plays folk songs,
I sing along. The children chant and bounce. The sounds
of separate worlds ignite in the dry air.
My skin tingles with knowing.

It is morning.
I learn an elder died in the night.
From our campsite on the hill, I hear his wife and daughter wail.
I watch their grief-torn bodies run to the village center.
Collapse onto the ground. Fists pound
the beat of anguish into the earth.
Dust swells.

About the Author:

Claire Coenen, LMSW, M.Ed. M.T.S., is a writer, teacher, and social worker living in Nashville, TN. Her work has previously appeared or is forthcoming in The Nashville Scene, The Write Launch, Beyond Words Literary Magazine, The Banyan Review,Cathexis Northwest Press, Soul-Lit, Light of Consciousness Magazine, and Salvation South. You can learn more here: clairecoenen.com

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