by Alex Stevens
Home
not every light that twinkles is for Christmas.
sparks electrocute the body & leave its flesh
hung loose on its bones.
i’ve seen it happen.
if you’ve been to a place where a castle
is built on muddy sands,
been to a place where kites soar above
skyscrapers–to a safe heaven,
been to a place where children find home in the embrace
of open arms, then you must have seen a home. i’ve seen it too.
i know a boy who found home in the tongues of men,
his desire is now a nightmare,
shadows of bright places– difficult word
silhouettes.
i’ve been to a place where children die of pangs
& vultures grow fat on malnourished carcasses.
-where men farm men
& plow out organs.
-where ladies are vulnerable,
their privacies snatched. i’ve been there. i’ve seen it happen.
i’ve seen a place, filled with bags of bones
encased in pieces of yellow dry skin
i stood frozen, with my arms wrapped around myself
as i look like the disease- i saw it. i cried- i cried again.
listen: fear kills. again, it kills.
but i chose life
i chose to cross the sea–a safe home.
home is everywhere– home is God.
across the sea, i’ve seen grieving faces– wet. dry. bold
shared rooms of asylums. a prison. a mad place for the sane.
i don’t know the colour of nightmare until i crossed over.
say it like this: nightmare is not dusk closing the eyes but dust.
every night i close my eyes to count beads- “our father who art in heaven…”
i see horrors in white uniforms saying: “go back home” . “leave” .” run”.
i see them use their Kneecaps– a stone stronger
than solid magma, to snuff life out of blacks in streets.
i see death. i see dying. I see faces begging to breathe–again.
i see home where the bodies float atop the sea.
if you ever find Warsan’s– “Home”, Read. Read again.
you’ll see that the sea is a safe home
-to escape memories
& put time behind.
Wor(l)d Problem
suppose a dying man can wish for water
or something. maybe breath.
suppose city streets in Minneapolis burn, & smoke
finds its way down our throats–
chokehold & snuff life out of our
tall, gangly, black bodies– call it shadows.
suppose the 1863 smoke that finds its way
down Abraham Lincoln’s throat still burns– again.
if it takes nine minutes for a cop to choke a black boy
to death, how long will it take the law to act?
yes– racism is the invisible hand on our mouths.
mama says the kneecap is the easiest way
to send a black boy home. in peace. home doesn’t hurt
except home is a womb aborting dreams.
yesterday, another black boy crossed a body of water,
& siren cued a scene he’s too familiar with,
& made him dis-eased. “but officer I’m just jogging ain’t
holding no gun.” hands cuffed behind his back,
knee on the neck, face kowtowed to suck in the filths.
chokehold until a whisper is heard…
officer i can’t brea-the. i can’t brea-the.
“water or something, please. i can’t brea-the. i thirst.”
i fear i won’t grow old like mama & bloom into forever.
i worry about the ashes of years past, fire still smoulders there.
i wonder if the chains that bind us to those
who have gone before will ever break— ever.
i worry, the way they keep wary eyes on black boys
in stores. in schools. in hoods.
how do we dial 911 without summoning
demons who steal our breath?
give us a gulp of air.
we can’t breathe.
Ókólí Stephen Nonso is a Nigerian writer whose poems have previously appeared or are forthcoming in Ngiga Review, Praxis Magazine, African writers, The QuillS, Adelaide Literary Magazine New York, and elsewhere. He has contributed to both national and international pages and anthologies. His short story has appeared in Best of African literary magazine. He is a joint winner of the May 2020 Poets in Nigeria (PIN) 10-days poetry challenge. You can follow him on: Twitter @OkoliStephen7 Instagram @Okoliwest90.
Alex Stevens is an artist living in Cardiff. His work lurks at the crossroads of science and magic; as an act of re-enchantment he wants to reveal demons in the blood, and eyes in the shadows. He can be found on Twitter @AbjectObjects