Bakandamiya VII.
My country endures inside of me.
I am far from it like a stone
flung into a static orbit. It waits at the edge
of a broken ring. Now I pray to shadows. One always does,
when they can’t hold loved ones.
I cry songs from the mettle of a reverie—I linger,
making up incoherent memories of where I grew up.
I am light to my country’s dark.
I am light to my mother’s sorrow.
What is the difference between mother and country,
if not for unconditional love?
Pray, sing, sin—God cares less. I ran away
from the country he has gifted me. My flesh
is the ghost no one can see.
But at least
there is food, medicine and loneliness here.
There is a shadow
taking off its dark skin
to reveal the light it swallowed.
How can I be so alone
when the hands of love is so tangible? They call me the N-word
and I think endearment.
Really, if the river is a person—
what would you ask of it?
I am thirsty.
Can’t you hear my skin callusing
from the inside?
I am thirty.
Home is at the edge
of everything I imagine.
I want to go back.
Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?
We all have many ghosts,
each time we leave,
one stays behind and sings. Perpetuity is coming,
can’t you see her twirling in a fairy dress?