Coffin at State House

There is a riddle in our soul

A proverbial totem of survival

Crocodile children went to the play-field

And fire maimed their homes

So they returned

To meet headless walls

Our cedi kneels

Before the shrine of global gods

Her value dashed to garbage can

Her flesh, de-fattened

Her destiny dangling

Like locomotive squirrel’s testicles

Our economic witches

Lost their eyes

And now

A new coffin lies at state house

We have known survival

But these headless walls

Threaten us into ghost-hood

A Dearth

Now I stand

Looking through the glass window

Muttering

Holding a cup of cold water

Wanting to pour bits on the floor

Then the voice came:

You are on a foreign land.

What is in a self-exile

That maims the deeper self?

There is something in this journey

That takes the spirit from us,

Then the cup dropped

Splitting ALL its contents and ITSELF