Rice cooks on the back burner
and the space
smells homey
and warm.
The common room
of the freshman dorm,
in the kitchenette
Edith
cooks.
Peppers bisected and
verdant, she slices
white onion quickly
and everyone watches
in a quiet way
as she makes
"just rice and some sauce"
Bright music plays
off the countertop
with words I can't speak,
words they don't teach here.
In her palm Edith balls up
a bit of rice,
dances and eats.
It is Ghanian tunes
she plays,
and then Nigerian.
She comes from
Africa.
Edith plays the songs
and cooks the rice
and I watch her behind
my book, she
is an opal jewel
with a plantain-sweet
smile.
