In commemoration of the lost people.

There’s no loss unless there’s something worth

Searching for, worth giving a found-it tag.

In a black bus in sarkin pawa,

A woman aches in righteous anger

For all the people the bandits’ bullet

Was fortunate enough to retract from earths fine skin.

I know her ache because I,

Too, have nested my ruin in communal faith.

She didn’t want to bend towards the ruin

to become a body of light,

she didn’t want to be

Refracted into a bent rainbow &

tap colors from all the music our

home has gradually learned to fade into

But the heart carries its ache more than the

body sags to its own burden.

she starts a gbagyi praise song and lost her

voice into the part where the musician said  “god if i fall,

lift me, and may they not laugh at my fall”

and to say this with eleven episodes of hope,

she breaks her accent into an accident of several casualties:

my body is the most injured.

The aching silence shoots through her mouth

 and she  sings her voice into pebbles.

It’s in her sprawling and sparkling body that

I see our communal birthmark: black

Smoke-stain traced perfectly into a broken country.

 I speak to her with my Gods tongue: no fatigue,

nor disease, nor sorrow, nor sadness,

Nor hurt, nor distress befalls a woman.

She put her hands into mine and I can texture

 the coarseness of her pa(lm)in,

I carry all the burden she has come this far to annihilate &

today I’m unable to bend/fold into a prayer,

so I attempt my  gods accent  again and verily and

verily it’s in the remembrance of  lost people

Do hearts find rest.