Fishing in Ghana

We leave at the onset of the rainy season
Before your country turns to mud.

We leave when the air gets too heavy,
Thick with humidity, weighing us down,
Pressing our eyes further into our pale heads,
Shutting our white eyelids —
One more curtain between our travels
And your reality.

My hands ache; yellow callouses start to form
After pulling for fifteen, twenty minutes,
Barely pulling on that fishing net.
But you sing and pull,
Five hours longer.
You chant these tones, barefoot on the sand,
Wearing only denim shorts,
Brown with sweat and age.

Your hands are two big callouses,
Also yellow.