Kakakin
A bee caught in the rain
tries to sting its way through the glass window.
On the other side of the road,
a man erases murals from the brick wall.
Outside a king’s palace, women in matching buba
gathered around bottle gourds, placed inside buckets
of water. I watched the women recite names
written on the throne, I didn’t hear my name.
When my body has the right amount of sugar,
my heart pulsates only to love songs.
I have ruled over cities that are not on maps,
I have ruled over a kingdom of crickets
and woke up to the ticking songs of kettles,
and sometimes to the mimicry of fledglings.
How noble that I can still spin yards of threads
into a gift basket. I fixed my gaze on the giant glass wall
until the barrier thinned out. I sanitized my palms
and raised them in praise of the black stone in Makkah.
In this small town, seventeen death certificates are signed
every day, someone waits for an organ transplant,
it’ll be too late by sunset. I offer a song in exchange for this grief,
I know that with a song, I’ll set my brain fog ablaze.
The wind clocks our aspirations inside its cold hands,
until we are numb like a frozen ball of blood, on the tip of a knife.
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