[First published in Fogged Clarity literary magazine (2009)]
We sit around this fireplace
in the sky that never goes out.
We are staring at each other
and these words
are like the firewood that stokes the fire-of-many-faces.
We sit around this fireplace but we are cold.
Here take my firewood it burns bright
it burns long it burns hard.
Take my firewood and we will be warm.
In my dream I fled America, the land of large people that know no hunger, sad people that will never know the joy of feeding a pain because they are never hungry. In my dream, I landed in Nigeria on my father’s favorite palm tree drinking palm wine and eating the meal-that-satisfies-the-belly that I had stolen from my mother’s earthen pots. In my dream, my mother’s voice, strong voice of steel, rose up, sonorous in sorrow, beautiful in sadness, rose up to rebuke…
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