My City Wants My Breath
I walked out of my hut and paradise was
at my reach. I carried my limbs in my mind
and walked the land. I was not afraid. Home
is where you sleep and bury your hassles.
Home is where you convey your worries in—
between your palms and your pillow. I saw
them christened in blood— my kinsmen, soft
like palate and leery of breath. I was a witness.
I was a boy, packaged by heaven to go through
hardship. A gentle boy, softer than the gods.
A timid child within the reach of the devil.
My gods were silent as grave. They remained
dead like finished rain. God was not on our
side. Until another mile. I beheld the breaths
of my friends pouring on my head. My city
burns and my body shudders. I teared my eyes
away from my face. God should help the poor.
He should protect the needy. I threw seventy
thousand words to the sky in a breath-effort.
I begged the angels to restore my city from
going astray. Those who beg God do not beg
mammon. One who begs God does not beplead
a spirit. I pleaded for mercy when my body
received a bullet. No one is ideal to danger
in my country. No one is inimical to death’s
brutality. My city is not glowing. My city is lion
but my body is sheep. My city is reaching
for my breath like bullets reach for bodies.
Detachment
The weather, calm as the wind of winter, nudges
my skin. Even though my country lives in chaos,
I am so calm in my distress, and I do not doubt
my stress. Inside the radio, a man killed three men
in a minute. On the television screen, a three-feet
flood leveled up a big building within three minutes.
On my phone, my father is dying, but I do not doubt
my distress. On my skin, a military man seeks a scar
to inject a bullet, but I do not fidget and do not shake.
I just play along with the devil reaching for my breath.
What can you do when your place of birth wants
to become your place of death? On Twitter, someone
just unfollowed me. He said all I post is about my country
betraying me. Again, on Twitter, someone just followed me.
She said my poems help her to regain hope. It is true that
what I want is different from what you want. My country
wants my breath and I desperately want to see its death.
Ayòdéjì Israel is a poet, writer and editor. His works have appeared/forthcoming on Livina Press, Defunct Magazine, Lumiere Review, Kreative Diadem, One Art Poetry, Arts Lounge, Counterclock, The Bitchin Kitsch and elsewhere. You can find him on Twitter @Ayo_einstein.
The Marbled Sigh 