[audioplayer file=”https://admin.rattle.com/audio/OkpunorAbia.mp3″]
Where I’m from there is something in the water—a
different kind of ghost. Even the sun cannot tell her
own shadow from a priest’s.
On the news, there’s Italy. Bodies stop to smell
like incense when silence comes knocking. Someone
is saying: do not go near a wall else you will become one.
In my country there’s sun, and a man carrying a stone
is about to part this water; you will hear a thousand
hallelujahs but no one will notice the little things
that tickle his face. No one.
Where I’m from there is a wrecking ball in the
wind, the rains made it here.
Soon the water will be full of prophets.
I want to know: who with lightning in his
throat will mock an olive tree?
Soon the water will be full of dancers, no one
can tell when, but can you now see how the sun fades?