A stray bullet is something
we anoint ourselves against.
Another prayer point
here, where dreams are born to die.
“…365 days ago
… died fighting for freedom”
I remember how Nimbe’s soul left his body
I watched as bullets kissed his skin;
as his body fell violently like lightning.
The city was silent,
the clergy said, “The lord giveth and the lord taketh away.”
For days, I remained numb, rebuking his
memory like a bad dream.
Here, living is a game of probability,
& humans are flipping coins.
What do you call a place that keeps pushing you away?
What do you call a place that kills you for refusing to die?
I call this place home.
