This is for the few of us who cannot choose to
disimagine the slow pelting of a bullet across jaw and rib
Or the slow hacking of limbs
I pray that God will destroy us before that age and
technicolor teaches us how our bodies can morph into something else
Before we may learn to love the monsters that grow inside of our wombs
We will need books on how to kiss these faceless babies
I would rather have God destroy us
Bring the sun so low that we all simmer until our hearts stop beating
I have had enough of aching in different skin tones
let the sunburn us all in one shade of blistering black
I would rather have God strike his fists into the center of us
Shaking complacency out of our flatted fists
Pointing with fingers that know only
the softness of a remote control atoms
I can't write poems on love or nature
All I know of is an evil that combining tongue to the ground by guilty
In my world, it's guns that have lips
Who whisper decay into your skin
Bullets lodged in hard health side line sin
In my world,
people dance against space, metal, Finger fucking triggers
And make love to the click and wear of slick bullets
And the rest of us casually flings away
Like condom used by an absent lover,
it's the romance of this bloodshed that has the
world gasping and grouping tuned into the TV screens
But you can't smell this pain through the BBC
We come from people who make love with cellist hands
Scream at the concave of their back or combine with the
tips of their fingers and make you feel this with a solum nod
Hands clast tell God that you press your forehead to
the ground and to those of us who have prayed among corpses
I pray that we find beauty in all this
ugliness and render our swollen glands hopeful
Somali women own a beauty that cannot be
masked by rape or hidden by a bullet-ridden miscarry
Ethiopia, when you kill us through the faces of our dead bodies look
any different to yours if you rape our
women isn't this more incest than anything else
I wish I could say that CNN or the
BBC can tell the difference between us
We share the blood of the land and bones smeared across our faces
and when America has finished with us you are next, do you know this?
Maybe this is what happens when you hold anger in a hungry stomach
We spit out deadly a youthful scream 6 crockets brings leaks and
hemorrhages in a mali woman hug their knees hold their faces till
laps we put onto this couch or carpet hoping our pain drop to a
deeper meaning that talks of
brainstorming and still beat their wives at home
Drunk at the sound of strange
currency no red arm can heal this residue
I know only how to protest with my mouth and pray on numb knees
I have nothing else to say
God will get them back