Literature or literate treasure or literate erasure
all lit
little slanted symbolic somethings in this marvelous cave
seeking to dot our essence
Suppose we think about the crude expectations required
of a mindful mother, “mama wa jamii”
your corpus callosum would begin to split
In the East, your face dribbles with sweat
scentless in the wind of a Mothers’ Union headscarf
do we drop it off here, while we strive here, will it thrive there
A crime scene peeks through the tears in our sky
will it be glorious and wickedly pure
when your eyes see the truth unobstructed
or will the tentacles of history
wither as they struggle to grasp your attention
Will we name it the hot season
when our bodies are sticky magnets
to each others’ essences
when the clones declare over loudspeaker:
We give up our arms
They who were wired and rewired to forget the goal
now recall a familiar yet failed memory
dancing like a shadow
a fragmented mirror mirrors the molecular shape of swine flu
The broken frame a replica of your imagination’s borders
we lose the folktale’s plot as we snore
loud drones of inhalation filling
empty hallways with the smog that is distraction
distracted minds
distracted psyches
distracted irises
distracted soles
