who play every Monday
at Rio's Pedra de Sa.
These no-name musicians whose sweaty
fans swaddle them like glistening orbs
climb the stone steps laid by slaves
God grabs them by their sound waves
The guitar pluck sweeps the slaves'
chin up; the Angolera whose ancestors
set the stone where masters shackled and sold her.
Her spirit remains in this sacred place
of lost and found, the ground where
life and death swirl in the saudade stew.
Her children play music
baked to perfection
in the convection oven
of a summer favela day.
The crowd molds into amber over hot
coals, a fluid samba of new and old.
I have goosebumps and God,
despite mythical WMDs and tipping points,
taps her feet.