Where are you headed when you walk?
Your mind is a novel of mysteries
And you are a word that does not have a meaning.
Where will you head when you wake?
You are a figure of distilled silence;
A room painted with the colour of fear—we fear
For the fire in your armpit causes a war in our homes—we fear
For tomorrow is a broken boat that carries you into livid tides—we fear
That the dance in your foot is that that paddles you home from us—we fear
For you and the lost echoes of your name, we fear…
Where will head when you die?
Into covers of engulfing cankerworms, the reapers that come
In search of cakes and broken spirits like gourds scattered around a torn earth?
Into caves of waters, green waters, deep green waters, very deep green waters
Fluids flowing in bellies of madmen and their children’s children?
Where? Will? You? Go?
You are the song we sing at the burial of children
The lamp we burn before the night sings a chorus,
The rain that gathers before the cloud becomes African
The wind that dances along in spaces between our palms,
You are a solitary revolutionist,
You are a lost night guard
You are a discording rhythm
You are a misled lover
You are the vanishing words we said
You are the memories we want to forget
You are not something good
You are our tears, the tears of mothers,
The shivering sighs of siblings lost in the loss of another,
You are a bad omen,
A rain in the sun, a rainbow curved around the path of blood,
Really, what are you?