Walking the edge of the Eastern Cataract
was my goal and my sole expectation; yet
arrived on the island I was confronted
by Winston’s: And now Madam? But you must swim!
Perplexed by my lack of camera, my still
satisfaction with journey and achievement:
the arriving; Winston was attempting to
inject some proper European spirit
into my day. But the Devil’s Pool, even
with this low, low water, was no attraction.
The contraction of tiny muscles somewhere
in my gut, warned against swimming on the edge,
the precipice, of the Smoke that Thunders,
I was content to share N’shima, almost
cooked in Zambezi water over a low
campfire; quenelles shaped in the palms of the hand
held there in a comforting moment; assessed
by Winston’s young nephews, given the nod
and the quite irrefusable offer
of a river ride, right there, right then
in their tiny, leaky canoe.