there are no rules except those against protests.
the silence came for us before the bullets.
every wound devours itself. dark green
molds in the lips culturing a system of crows
& bloodstream. I am crying crystal with the dreams
of my father’s children that remained ghosts.
i sew the salt into this. the scene of the bone white
ribs flashing in my head. you don’t hold blood,
do you? a bloodied eagle perched atop
the tollgate of ribs. in its beak, its flesh.
& behind it a sky of crows. a battle rifle
aiming at us. our tongues held nothing
but an anthem of anguish. more like chewing
broken bottles. more like begging to live.
there’s a signpost that reads: do not look back
else you will have nothing but the testimony
of pillars of salt. but are they not my father’s
children? where is the line between the scared,
the lost & the dead? will my hope not carry
them all along in my heart? i rinse salt
with salt. i remember the night & cry.
endless echo of prime afternoon. this heat,
byworks. I’m still falling through to discover
if one of these bottoms is rock enough
to hold me. I steam frustration into pasta
because I’ve realized how the dynamics
of this world center on what and who
is food. I listen to the cracks of the roofs,
wondering the what-ifs
of being a rooftop. well, I won’t know
and that’s the bliss. now, I can’t stop.
Imagine it: the chorus of melanin under a skin,
the buzz of a quiet noontime and that the whiteness
is somehow contained in a fishbowl. sometimes
I pretend to be Yemi, and the goldfish
that professed her love across the boundaries
of shores & waters. but what is between me
is air quiet enough to steady a candlelight
and I know how flickering this life can be.