Love Poems: Monrovia on Wednesday

we who come from nothing
whose heirlooms are buried
in mass graves under
African skies

we do not hear our grandmother’s voice
and cannot kiss her hands
while we sit under trees to pray

we come from places
where bullets spray
they do not care
he is your brother
they are not moved
by your weeping

hold it in and be still
that is the African way
the world does not pity
black sufferance

our death does not shake them
we are rotting corpses and open wounds
charity cases dying
on rich soil whose fruit we do not reap

they wear our blood on their necks and fingers

but how can you not see our soul?
it is the thing that keeps us
it is the thing we carry

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